


Maybe Just Happy

by gloss



Series: Alive in Your Life [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Earth, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Falling In Love, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Makeouts, New Jobs, New Relationship, OTP Feels, Reference to Dead Exes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Finn sets the paper aside and cocks his head. "What's this about asking me out?""Right, right, thanks." Poe digs his hand back and forth through his hair. "I thought it'd be nice. To do a date-thing, like normal people.""I'm a normal person," Finn says mildly."Youseemnormal, but trust me. You're almost as much of a weirdo as I am.""I dunno, dude, that's pretty highly weird."Poe nods fervently. "It is! I know it is."What comes after the meet-cute: teasing and sharing, fragility and resilience.They both want to get this right, but they have no idea what they're doing. Luckily, they're in this  together.





	Maybe Just Happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orchis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchis/gifts), [galacticproportions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticproportions/gifts).



> I couldn't, wouldn't, have written this without @orchis and GP. 
> 
> Thanks also to @Phlebas the Phoenician and @Savvy Mavvy for their kindness, support, and inspiration. I stole some menswear details from @sixappleseeds' real life; title and epigraph from Nirvana.

> _My heart is broke_  
>  _But I have some glue_  
>  _Help me inhale_  
>  _And mend it with you._ \-- "[Dumb](https://youtu.be/IEXDVf4AET4?t=1m11s)," Nirvana

Sunday afternoon, and it's growing late. Maybe it's that end-of-the-weekend melancholy settling into the shadows that's making Poe reflective and antsy.

"Hey," Poe says.

Finn is perched at the kitchen counter, legs wrapped like vines around the stool, cheek in his hand. He blinks, coming back to attention from whatever he was reading. "Hey."

For a second, Poe just looks at him. Then another, and another after that, until Finn's smiling at him.

Poe wouldn't change anything about the last month since meeting Finn, not for the world. It has to be said, however, that the change is dizzying. Everything's moving so fast. His life had been on hold, in deep freeze cold storage, but now, now it's confusing and hellbent and _fast_.

Especially since he seems to be doing everything backwards. He's fallen hard for this dude, they're hanging out all the time, but they have yet to go on a real date.

Maybe every time they're together is another date? Poe hasn't done this in so long, he doesn't know what even counts as a date any longer.

He does know that Finn's great. He deserves the world. The least Poe can do is try to give him a real date, something as fine and fancy and splendid as Finn is handsome, funny, and kind. Something that takes a little more effort, shows a bit more care, than a falafel wrap when they take BB-8 to the dog run.

"We're cool, right?" Poe asks.

Finn's brows knit together, then unfurl. "I've been operating on that assumption, yeah."

"Like, you're not...because if so, I could try more, right? Harder! I'm open to whatever, you know? If that's okay!"

Finn's smile widens. "You're talking before the thoughts finish again."

"Maybe!" Poe spreads his arms and bounces on his toes. "You, see -- so I want to try harder in the whole --." He takes a deep breath and grabs for Finn's arm. "Are we going out?"

Nodding, Finn slowly licks his lower lip. "Pretty sure we are."

"Wicked, okay."

"That's good news to you, right?"

Poe huffs. "Yes, duh."

"Okay, because you're..." Finn moves his hand up and down vaguely, encompassing Poe from top to bottom. He frowns. "What are you doing?"

"I want to do this right!" Poe insists.

"'This' being...what, exactly?"

"This! You, me. Us, together. I want to do it _right_."

"You're doing this fine, though. More than fine."

"Yeah, but it's backwards. I want to make it right."

Finn leans back, hands loose in his lap. "You proposing here, man?"

Poe's eyes go wide and his mouth opens, just for a second, before he covers it with his hand and rubs at his jaw. "I wasn't thinking -- but if that's --. Something you're interested in? Oh, god. Should we talk about that?"

Laughing and shaking his head, Finn claps him on shoulder. "I'm fucking with you, sorry."

"Man!"

"I said I was sorry." Finn reaches past him to grab last weekend's paper. "Where'd you put the style section?"

Poe has long since lost track of this conversation, let alone any sense of control of it. _That_ was probably an illusion from the get-go, let's be honest. "I didn't do anything to the style section, why do you always blame me?"

"Because it's your place, maybe? Here it is, sorry." Over the top of the paper, Finn winks at him. "Okay, so you're _not_ proposing. Refusing to make an honest man of me, I can't believe you. What a letdown."

"But --" Poe grips the edge of the counter and leans in. "I didn't know!"

"Poe. _Chill_. I'm yanking your chain."

Poe tries to lean rakishly against the counter as he raises one brow. "Baby, you can yank me anytime."

"Goes without saying, I'd think." Finn smirks at him, that sly little half-smile that promises terrific and also terrible things. "What _are_ you trying to say?"

Poe's sulking now, as he squats down to rub BB's ears. "Wanted to ask you out, haha, what a joke I am."

Finn kicks him in the side lightly, then taps his foot against Poe's thigh a couple more times for good measure. "Ask me out how? Where? Why?"

Poe glances up. After a moment, his sourness melts away. "To dinner."

Finn looks around the apartment, then back down. "I thought we were doing enchiladas tonight."

Poe reaches up so Finn can pull him back to his feet. He stumbles slightly, accidentally-on-purpose, landing against Finn's side, to steal a sniff and nip down on Finn's neck.

"Tonight, yes," he says, righting himself, "we're doing the world's best enchiladas, thanks to me, world's best enchiladier. I'm talking about --. Wait, no, it'd be 'enchilador', right?"

"Hell if I know," Finn says, his smile slow and fond. "I'm not the bilingual one."

"You exceed unilingual-ness, though, you really do."

"Me and my one tongue, huh?"

"One tongue, but _what_ a tongue, is what I'm saying."

Finn sets the paper aside and cocks his head. His gaze might as well be material; its progress over Poe's torso and face leaves heat in its wake, accelerating and radiating. "Thank you. What's this about asking me out?"

"Right, right, thanks." Poe digs his hand back and forth through his hair. "I thought it'd be nice. To do a date-thing, like normal people."

"I'm a normal person," Finn says mildly.

"You _seem_ normal, but trust me. You're almost as much of a weirdo as I am."

"I dunno, dude, that's pretty highly weird."

Poe nods fervently. "It is! I know it is."

"Yet now you want to put all that charming eccentricity aside to do, what, exactly?"

Poe leans in, suddenly intent and sharply-focused. "You think I'm charming?"

With the newspaper folded up, Finn mimes batting him about the head and shoulders. "Yes, otherwise, what would I be doing here?"

"I dunno, scarfing down the world's best enchiladas and scooping the poop of the world's greatest dog?"

Hearing "dog", BB yips and tries to climb Finn's calf. As he presses him back down, Finn makes a show of thinking Poe's point over. He rubs his mouth and squints into the middle distance. "You make a convincing argument. Maybe I _should_ cut back. Restrict myself to that stuff for awhile, see how it goes."

Tipping up his chin, Poe tries not to rise to the bait. "Maybe you should."

"Maybe I will."

Poe rolls back his shoulders and stretches so his shirt rides up and his hips push forward. He strokes the exposed skin across his belly slowly. _Seductively._ He hopes. "Of course, then you'd be missing all of _this_. Not to mention an excellent dinner at one of the city's finer dining establishments. In the company, did I mention, of --" He stretches again, then sweeps a palm up and down his torso. " _This_."

He waits, brows raised expectantly, for Finn's resistance to collapse in a smoking pile of rubble. As it surely will. Any minute now.

Finn appears unmoved. "Sorry, what are you offering here?"

Poe shimmies his hips. " _This_ , dude, this. All of this, huh? What do you say?"

Finn looks him up and down. "What else've you got?"

"Asshole," Poe says, grinning, punching Finn's arm several times. "You could at least pretend to be touched by the offer, maybe tempted, but _no_ , you go right into teasing me --"

Finn grabs him around the waist, hard enough that Poe yelps in surprise, and hauls him close. He tucks his fingertips under the waistband of Poe's cords and licks the length of his neck, from soft shoulder skin up over stubble dark and heavy as thunderclouds.

"You're fun to tease," he says.

"Hmph," Poe says, fighting to seem angry, even as he nudges closer and drops his head back to allow greater access to his neck. "Are you going to at least apologize?"

"Sorry," Finn says, kissing him, then adds, breath and tongue. Hot against Poe's cheek, "not sorry."

 

For most of his life, Finn understood teasing as one more act of aggression in a world already overrunning with it. Teasing is about reminding the victim that he's vulnerable: it's how bigger kids make younger ones feel even smaller, how adults pretend to be funny only so they can remind you that they're in control.

But Finn really enjoys teasing Poe. He's not sure why, since it's not something he does with other people. With Rey, true, he has to snap back, give as good as he gets, or her snark would trample him totally flat. That's different, because Rey is in a category of her own, and, more, Finn doesn't _enjoy_ it so much as _have_ to do it.

Teasing Poe is neither self-defense nor aggressive. Finn's not making fun of Poe, not highlighting his shortcomings, not trying to put him in his place. Nothing like that. If anything, Finn's making fun of _himself_ for how much he gets a kick out of everything about Poe. Teasing him isn't criticizing but, instead, appreciating everything great about the guy. Bringing those Poe-ish qualities out, shining a light on them, _savoring_ them.

It's like reaching out and rubbing Poe's arm, or lacing their fingers together. Resting his head on Poe's shoulder. It's a way to touch and connect. Make contact, then let it linger.

Also, Poe gets ridiculous and silly when he's teased enough. He flushes and splutters, starts to look a little crazed.

His agitation is, honestly, kind of adorable.

Not that Finn would ever say so. You don't describe a grown man -- particularly one whose dick you've sucked and really hope to suck again, _soon_ \-- as "adorable", not if you want to stay on his good, frequent-fellatio, side. In so many other ways, Poe is serious, grave, even occasionally melancholy. Caught in repose, with his drooping eyes and luscious mouth, he looks the way Johnny Hartman's voice sounds.

But then you tease him a little, get him worked up, and he grins and flails and tries to over-explain, and, really. There isn't a word better than "adorable".

Finn can't stop smiling when he's around Poe. He's laughing like a dork half the time. Teasing Poe is just another dimension of this strange, persistent excitement. It celebrates the elation, prolongs and refuels it.

They're laughing together when the kiss breaks.

"Tell me what you're worried about," Finn says gently when Poe peels himself free. He's flushed, his lower lip a little swollen.

At the sink, Poe refills BB's water bowl. "I worry, like, this whole thing, are we rushing? Am I pushing you into something too serious?"

At that, Finn laughs, but stops abruptly when Poe whirls on him, looking stricken. "Man, you're not -- _pushing_ me? Into what?"

"I dunno! Am I?" Poe shrugs expansively and starts pacing.

Poe likes to worry. Finn understood that within about 24 hours of meeting him.

Finn worries, too, _a lot_ , but it's different for Poe. Not necessarily easier (or harder), just different. Poe worries extensively, vocally, at baroque length. He scowls and sighs, paces a bit, uses his hands to describe the shape, volume, extent of his thoughts, concerns, feelings, and doubts.

By contrast, Finn's kind of worry sticks under his skin. It wraps him up tight, crawls like rush-hour gridlock, ablast with horns and curses, never getting very far at all.

It's by acting out the worry that Poe gets to know what's bugging him, that's what Finn thinks.

"Hey," Finn says now, reaching to catch Poe's hand as he passes, intent on his pacing.

"Yeah?"

"If the backwards thing really bugs you, maybe we should --" He doesn't know where he's going with this. He drops his hand, but Poe grabs it back and presses it between both his palms.

"I don't want to slow down," Poe says. He nods slowly, frowning and serious.

"Okay, good, that's good." Finn nods, like they're listening to someone else. That mystery stranger seems to be making very good points. "I don't want to, either. Not at all."

He can't imagine slowing down. He'd miss this doofus way too much.

"Yeah?" Poe asks, and he sounds hesitant, a little surprised. He squeezes Finn's hand when Finn nods again. So Poe _does_ have worries that he doesn't say out loud. Finn resolves to remember that.

"Yeah, of course, I'm just --" Finn shrugs. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Poe rocks into him, bumping their shoulders together. "Bullshit. You've got moves I've never seen. Never even _dreamed_ of."

"You were basically celibate and/or a hobo for years, though," Finn reminds him. Poe starts to frown and draw himself up, getting ready to protest, so Finn adds hastily, "Besides, I don't mean, like. Sexually."

Poe leans in. "Say that again."

" _Sexually_. Why?"

"I dunno, somehow it's double-extra-hot when you say it. Form and content, meaning and appearance." Poe grins at him and lets go of Finn's hand to run his own through his hair. "All Bauhaus-like."

"Band or art school?"

"Yes," Poe says, nodding. "Exactly."

"God, you're so weird," Finn tells him, smiling, pulling Poe forward by the shoulders. "What _is_ your deal?"

"I have no deal," Poe murmurs, kissing Finn's neck, tugging down the collar of his t-shirt and pressing his mouth into the hollow between shoulder and clavicle. Trying to match Finn's pulse, he beats his tongue against the skin.

"You do, I know you do," Finn tells the crown of Poe's skull; his breath disturbs the messy curls. "I'm gonna figure it out."

"When you do," Poe says, wrapping an arm around Finn's waist, "you'll let me know, right?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Dunno, still need to decide that," Finn replies, blowing a raspberry against Poe's scalp.

Poe gulps and pats wildly at his hair. "Watch it!"

"If anything, that helped the mess," Finn tells him. "Trust me."

"Yeah, yeah, what, your spit's like pomade now?"

"You use pomade?"

Poe's gaze slides away. "Sometimes."

"Uh-huh," Finn says. He sits up straighter and neatens the pile of newspapers. "So, tell me. This dinner date, would it be a pomade-worthy type of occasion?"

Poe nods decisively. "Oh, yeah! Pomade, dress up, wine by the bottle, whole nine yards."

"Where are we going?"

"I..." Poe reaches for the pile of newspapers that Finn just fixed. He mumbles, "I can't tell you. It's a surprise."

"Fun," Finn says, without very much conviction at all. Worry creeps up his spine: how nice does "dressed up" mean? Does he own anything that can pass muster, if only in low light? _Preferably_ in low light. "What are you going to wear?"

Poe waves his hand. "Probably pants and a shirt. Not feeling the cocktail frock lately." Finn makes a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle, but it catches in the back of his throat. Poe looks over. "You can wear anything, buddy. You'd look amazing in a ratty bathrobe, Kleenex boxes for shoes."

"Nah," Finn says, face warming. When Poe knocks into him again, buries his face into Finn's neck, the worry slips a little way back, lightening, relaxing its grip.

*

It's hard to believe it's been less than a month since he met Finn. That doesn't seem right, and yet his calendar remains firm on the matter.

Poe had his most recent monthly meeting with his boss the Monday morning after he met Finn. They'd spent the weekend together, mostly in bed, so the man who somehow found his way to the office that morning was a dreamy goof who floated about three feet off the ground and grinned at nothing and everything.

"You'd think environmentalists would be better about excess paper," Dr. Organa said before she even sat down for that meeting.

Poe couldn't do much more than shrug; his office is a disaster area, there are no two ways about it. "Sorry about this."

She waved her hand. "Hardly particular to you." Settling onto the weird ergonomic kneeling chair she brings everywhere, she smoothed her skirt, then peered at him over the top of her crescent-shaped reading glasses. "You seem...different. Visit the hair stylist, did you?"

They both laughed. As if that would ever happen. He got used to trimming it himself in the field and now that he's back in among other human beings, he's loath to waste money paying someone else to do it.

"Just had a good weekend," he told her, then had to hope like hell she doesn't talk to her jackass of a son too frequently. "A great one, actually."

She nodded, her lips pressed together in a fairly unreadable expression.

"Well," she said, smile deepening. "It's about time."

Poe wanted, very much, to ask her what she meant by that. He was not entirely certain, however, that their relationship had reached that point yet.

"Roses in your cheeks, spring in your step," she added. "Someone's done wonders for you. _To_ you, I suppose."

Obviously, _she_ had reached the point of being comfortable discussing his sex life, however obliquely. He just wasn't there himself. He might not ever be.

In this morning's meeting, she said something else, chuckling to herself: "I look forward to meeting the energetic soul who's taken you in hand...and elsewhere."

Leia Organa thinks about his well-being. About his (suddenly reborn and now joyously flourishing) sex life. He's a little freaked out, but also a lot thrilled, by the very idea. She's something of a legend, nearly a force of nature, definitely someone to be reckoned with, whether that's arguing with politicians at a legislative hearing or with poachers in the depths of the rainforest.

That he gets to work here feels miraculous. (That he has a job at all is a miracle, actually.) Not just _in_ her organization, but right up here _with_ her. Organa might not be on the level of a Leakey or Jane Goodall, but for anyone familiar with primate conservation and environmental activism in general, she's inescapable. 

None of which is to say that the headquarters of Extinction Resistance are at all swank. Legends like Leia get things done, bring in the funds and make the headlines, but their standing doesn't get reflected, at all, in their surroundings. Tucked away on the 9th floor of a featureless downtown building, the office is "presentable" at the best of times, "lived-in" to "slovenly" the rest of the time.

This morning after his meeting with Leia, Poe hovers by the office admin's desk. He fetched her a specialty coffee, pulled to her exacting specifications, and now he's waiting, hoping, _dreading_ the verdict.

Kaydel's nose wrinkles slightly as she sniffs the almond-milk foam. She is preternaturally suspicious, a beautiful, ethereal wraith who looks like she should be on a Milanese catwalk, not here typing up memos and puzzling out Poe's terrible handwriting and keeping Leia and Statura, the comptroller, from each other's throats. 

Poe holds his breath, waiting for her to say something sneering about his inability to order the simplest latte, but then she sips and, miracle of miracles, actually smiles. He has seen her smile precisely three times since he started here. Two were due to words of praise from Dr. Organa. The other came in the midst of a hug from Organa's ex's enormous bear of a husband.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Poe says finally. 

He was hoping she'd start talking, but Kaydel is both exceptionally competent and enormously bored by other human beings.

"What."

"If you were looking for a nice dinner out, where would you go?"

"Why." She doesn't look up. Her eye makeup is elaborate and dark, a little swirly at the edges.

"I --" He scrubs at his hair. "I'm still getting to know the city, not sure where --"

"You've been here almost two years."

"Yeah," he admits, dropping his hand. "Guess I'm a slow learner?"

She makes a small breathy sound, her version of a laugh. "Business or personal."

"Pleasure," he says, then realizes she asked something else. "Personal! I meant personal."

"Ew," she says at the same time. "Gross."

"Personal!"

She rolls her eyes. "So dumb. Veg or sicko sadist?"

"Uh. Well, omnivore? But veg would be fine, I'm not opposed, of course, and he isn't either, probably, no, definitely not --"

"What's his name?"

"Who?"

She drops her hands from the keyboard, a gesture equivalent in dramatic weight to anyone else throwing something across the room. " _Poe_."

"Finn, his name's Finn. Why?"

Kaydel tilts her head and blinks very slowly. Her lashes are so heavy, she looks exhausted having to move them. "Just wanted to see if you'd tell me."

"Oh, of course I would, why not just ask me?" Ready to get comfortable, he leans one hand on the edge of her desk and crosses one leg over the other. "What else do you want to know about him? He's the one I told you about, the bouncer! Well, former bouncer, now he's doing tailoring and things like that. He's really --"

"Ugh, whatever," she says and resumes typing. He's missed his opportunity, if it ever existed. "I'll text you three good restaurant options."

He taps the desk. "Not too expensive, though, right?"

She neither looks up nor responds, so he's just going to have to hope for the best. Maybe he can raid his retirement account if he needs to. (He has a retirement account these days. Who _is_ he, anyway?) After a couple moments, he has to accept the fact that the conversation is over, so he heads back to his desk. He's more nervous now than he was.

Once again, he's gotten ahead of himself. He invited Finn on a dinner date without having made plans yet. This always happens to him; he'd been thinking about how they hadn't exactly dated much, so he got to talking about it, musing, really. The next thing he knew, he was asking Finn out, acting like it was already happening.

Poe's fairly sure that Finn believes the plans are all set. He covered up that lapse pretty well.

He thinks. Probably.

He spends the rest of the morning in a confusing, but ultimately productive, five-way conference call about next year's fundraising efforts and grant structures. After that, he has copy to review and okay, a responsibility that still confounds him. Who is he to tell a writer that they've expressed themselves wrong?

"Just be yourself," Dr. Organa had told him on his first day. "I hired _you_ , not some plastic PR dickhead, for a reason."

Thinking she must have meant 'yes man', someone who would nod along, he asked, "bobblehead, you mean?"

"No," she said. " _Dickhead_. Which you better not turn out to be, Dameron. I don't like unpleasant surprises."

He's doing his best.

*

Finn wasn't even going to file for unemployment, given how obviously he deserved to get fired. Rey dared him to, however, and she gets stubborn, so to avoid that, he went ahead. 

Somehow, miraculously, no one at the club bothered to dispute his claim. What's more, he's still young enough, just barely, to qualify for an apprenticeship grant. With the little money coming in, he is -- not set, not quite comfortable, but also not _panicking_ , for the next several weeks. 

One day he was a barback, incredibly and irredeemably single, and bored out of his mind.

Now, a month later, he has a job getting trained in industrial tailoring and upholstery, a weird and beautiful boyfriend, and so much to do that he's a little breathless.

To be honest, when he got the apprenticeship, Finn assumed it meant that he'd be hauling furniture. He's young and fit as well as uneducated and unskilled. What else would they have him do? What else was he good for? Someone along the line probably gave the position a fancy title like "apprentice" to satisfy some bureaucrat or private funder. One summer, when Finn was 14, he won a scholarship for underprivileged youth to an "immersive field biology experience", which meant, in practice, that his nerdy ass got to clear trash and weeds out of a former industrial lot for two long weeks. Sometimes at lunch they looked at birds and chased feral cats.

His first morning at the workshop, he did indeed move a lot of stuff, but that was to make room for his workstation. The shop is so cluttered, packed and draped with skeletal furniture and abandoned bolts of fabric and spools of thread, running feet for machines they haven't used in years, that it's almost _organic_ , a living thing under constant development.

Finn has a workstation, a cutting area and pinboard for his tools -- he has _tools_! many of which he only had heard of, never used, before his first day -- and a rehabbed serger and stool of his own. So maybe his station _is_ jammed in between the end of Julio's much larger area and the tiny washroom that always smells faintly of Comet and piss, but it's Finn's.

The guys here -- Julio and João, a nephew or two, and the bookkeeper who still hasn't got a name -- assumed from the get-go that Finn not only wanted a job but was more than capable of picking this one up. There hasn't been any of the dumb patronizing shit he's come to expect, whether that's talk about how he needs to have "passion" for the position (laughable for just about any job, all the more so when the position is mopping puke and hauling kegs) or assumptions that he wants to rise into management (as if his greatest dream is to become a petty bully). Instead, they simply put him to work, clearing his space. Then they showed him the basics for the first couple days, measuring and cutting, how to use the machines and jiggle their different settings. The rest of it, they say, comes with practice. They smack his shoulder when they say that, repeat "lots of practice", and add, poking him with scissors, "so get to practicing". He doesn't know the origin of the joke, if it is a joke, but they really love it.

They raz him when he hesitates to cut into a fresh bolt, pretend to shout and lose their minds when he needs to be shown, _again_ , how to thread the overlock head, but they also bring extra servings in their lunches for him sometimes.

"Lady at church makes them," Julio says, waving off Finn's protest when he gives Finn a margarine tub packed with tamales, "and my wife buys too many."

"Well, thanks, then," Finn says, stowing the tub back in the shop's minifridge. His name is lettered in Julio's shaky all-caps across the lid. "Thank her, too."

"She thinks the money goes to the church," Julio adds, shaking his head as he digs into his lunch. "No, just into Carlos's wife's enormous purse!"

"Damn Carlos," Finn mutters and Julio laughs, so Finn adds, "rat bastard."

Julio has a great laugh, like a minor Looney Tunes character, all _hem-ha-ha-HA!_

*

His new routine has just sort of established itself, almost out of nowhere, like green shoots inside sidewalk cracks. Every other weekday, Finn walks from the workshop to Poe's place, picks up BB-8, and takes him on an extra walk. Days when Poe isn't working late, they head to his office and pick him up. 

Sometimes, Finn feels like they've known each other for years already. They already have a rhythm -- several rhythms, actually, depending on mood and situation -- an easy back and forth that he can't resist.

That's not to say that everything is always easy. They're gentle with each other, but even then, care has to be taken.

"Explain who Rey is again," Poe had said the second time they hung out. They were in Finn and Rey's studio apartment, sprawled on the futon, alternating between making out and talking. Poe's face was scrunched up, he was leaning in, he looked for all the world like he was trying to translate Cantonese on the fly.

Into Quechua.

"It's not that hard," Finn told him. "You have female friends, don't you?"

Maybe he didn't, maybe Poe was that much older than Finn enough that he was from a different generation. But what generation didn't have friends?

Poe nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Yeah, of course, I told you about Karé, right? She pretty much founded our co-op, she's amazing --"

"Right, so you're not unfamiliar with the concept."

There it was again, Poe scowling in concentration; maybe Finn ought to been exasperated, but it was charming, honestly. "With friendship? No."

"So what's the big deal here?"

Poe's eyes widened little bit. "No deal, big or otherwise. I just --"

"She's my best friend in the world." Finn could _hear_ the defensiveness in his tone, but he couldn't seem to do anything about it.

Poe looked crestfallen, which was a term and concept Finn hadn't thought about since middle school, probably, back when he won the public library's reading contest. "Never mind, sorry."

Finn coughed into his hand. He let a moment pass, then another, before he said, "Maybe I overreacted."

"Maybe I pushed!" Poe's voice was suddenly loud, his head thrown back. A little more quietly, he added, "I do that, I've heard. Get nosy, consider myself entitled to...things. Push too hard."

Finn took a breath and smiled. "Start over. Ask me again, I won't be a defensive freak."

Poe shrugged. "It's all right."

"Don't _sulk_ , man, c'mon."

Poe's head was hanging down. Finn could see the twin tendons on the back of his neck, lightly covered with hair, the skin warm and rosy-tan beneath the curls. He pictured stroking the valley there, walking his fingertips into the hair.

Poe shrugged again as he looked over at Finn without really lifting his head. "That's another thing I do, only I don't know I'm doing it."

"What, sulk?"

Poe nodded. His voice sounded a little raw at the edges. "Yeah, I --" He slumped back, bringing his hands up in front of him, then looked at them like he didn't know where they'd come from. They dropped heavily back into his lap. "I feel bad, it gets to me, really drags me down, but apparently it looks like I'm just sulking like a bratty asshole."

Each of them, in his own way, was talking about other things, to other people, dragging in memories of other misunderstandings, older accusations. 

"I was just teasing you," Finn said quietly. "Sorry."

As Finn continued, Poe shifted a little closer, then closer yet, so that when Finn was finished, they were pressed up together like two skiers stranded in an avalanche trying to share body warmth.

He told Poe how he'd met Rey in his second-to-last group home, how they aged out of the system together, found one shitty apartment, then another, finally this one. She's the closest thing he has to family, even (probably especially) when she drives him crazy; she's the strongest, bravest person he knows; she was also the smartest person he'd ever met before he met Poe. That last assertion that made Poe bark, then howl, with laughter.

"I'm serious," Finn told him. They were sitting so close, he could feel Poe hitch in a breath, then slowly exhale. "So, yeah, that's who Rey is."

They didn't _have_ to wade through all the old muck. They could simply talk to each other and see how it went. That approach had been working so far, as brief as their acquaintance was.

They need to try and _be_ together. Not take it for granted, not yet, maybe not ever.

"Cool," Poe said eventually, like he'd taken some time to think it over, figure out how he felt about things, and was finally rendering his judgment. The smile he wore was nearly beatific. "That's so beautiful that you found each other."

"Yeah," Finn said, and the next breath was easier; the one after that, even smoother. "Sometimes my luck works out."

Poe's hand was on the middle of Finn's back now, rubbing slow circles. "It's not _luck_ , it's because you're --"

"Man," Finn said lowly, "let's change the subject, okay?"

"Okay," Poe said, prompt and agreeable. He had this way about him, Finn couldn't describe it very well, that was so kind and accommodating, and rarely, if ever, condescending. In the face of it, Finn felt both safe and confident. _Warm_. Poe tugged Finn back until they'd slid halfway off the futon and were staring up at the water-stained ceiling. "What's your favorite flavor of pie? And you can't say apple, because that's dumb and obvious."

"Pecan."

"Whoa, dark horse candidate, sweet." Poe scrunched up his face, thinking. "Really sweet, those things are _intense_."

Hand in his hair, Finn shook Poe lightly. "That's the point, dude. What about you?"

"Blueberry, or cherry. Sometimes apple.'

"You said --"

"I break the rules," Poe replied. It looked like he was trying not to smile, but not very hard. "I know the risks and I go ahead regardless."

"Like a superhero?"

"Exactly, thank you. Bravery like mine is rarely rewarded in one's own lifetime, but you can't help hoping for just a little recognition."

This pleasure in companionship is something Finn is certain he's never felt before, at least not for very long. It's different from attraction -- he's definitely attracted to Poe, no question -- and even from affection, although his affection for the guy seems to grow exponentially by the day. No, this pleasure is something else again.

It will catch him, snag his attention, then send a warm surge through his chest. Sometimes he thinks he might be about to blush the entire time they're together, and then some more whenever he thinks about Poe.

*

Before he came back to the city, Poe spent several years on the road, shooting photos and writing reports with a tiny animal-rights collective. He hasn't been entirely clear about why he came back; he's muttered something about people getting hurt and their group identity falling apart. Apparently, they had worked, published, and exhibited as a single identity until that became unsustainable.

"Like a band," Finn says. "Do you argue over who gets to use the name still?"

They are browsing at the produce store near Poe's office, trying to keep BB-8 from devouring delicious gerbera heads while selecting fruit. Poe holds a cantaloupe up to his ear and raps his knuckles against it. "Knock-knock, who's there?" In a higher voice, he answers himself, "melon!" He grins at Finn and asks, "Melon who?"

"Well?" Finn asks. "Melon who?"

"I dunno, I couldn't think of a good play on 'melon'," Poe replies as he sets the cantaloupe back down. He pats it apologetically. "It wasn't ripe anyway."

"What about these?" Finn holds up two fat apples, one in each hand.

"Red rot," Poe says. "Did you know that? Farmers call it that, when they're bred for color over taste."

"I did not." Finn steers BB away from the bundles of braided garlic bulbs on a low shelf. "God, this place is like a poison labyrinth if you're a dog."

"Or a person," Poe says, joining them. "The pesticides on apples are like..." He blows a long, whistling noise. "Out of this world. But not in the good Yuri Gagarin sort of way." 

"World's a scary place," Finn says, wriggling past Poe to get to the mangoes.

"Bruises you up, that's for sure."

Finn only learned recently that there are different kinds of mangoes, just as there are different varieties of persimmon -- but not of banana, they're all basically clones of each other, which, as Poe said, brings its own sort of complications and problems. "Which is the sweeter mango again? The one you like better?"

"No, we don't, it's pretty much a non-issue," Poe says, then stops. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"Mango," Finn says. "What were _you_ talking about?"

"We don't argue about the co-op identity," Poe says. "We argued about everything else, but not that. No one wants it, not after Muran got killed. Ataulfo mango, but, really, you can't go wrong, mango-wise. In a mangovian sense."

Without meaning to, Finn digs his thumb into the skin of the mango he's holding. "Muran was your boyfriend, right?"

Poe bobs his head. He's a quarter turned away, studiously peering at the pears. "Yeah. Me and Muran, and Karé, and Iolo, that was the squad."

"You didn't tell me he got killed."

Poe turns to look at him now. His lips are thin and blanched. "Yeah, went and got himself murdered. Guess we were getting under somebody's skin."

"Poe --"

Poe doesn't shrug off Finn's touch. He remains still, accepting it, blinking a little vaguely. "Anyway, yeah."

*

"Here, don't say I never give you anything," Rey says when she gets in from job #2. She tosses a big plastic shopping bag onto his lap; luckily, he's used to her propensity for lobbing projectiles and has already lifted his dinner plate out of the way.

"What is it?"

"Don't look at it like it's going to bite you," she says, shucking off her work drag and padding to the fridge for water.

"Sometimes your presents bite."

She bares her teeth. Says, "Sometimes _I_ bite, but you still love me," before chugging half the water in the pitcher.

Finn sets his plate out of harm's way and peers into the bag. Something wooly is folded up inside, smelling faintly of mothballs.

"Sally Ann comes through like a champ," she says. "Try it on, come _on_ , I'm dying here."

Finn unfolds the jacket -- it's a blazer, or a sport coat, he's never been quite sure if there's any difference -- heavy wool, a subtle plaid that looks like about forty different shades of brown and green and blue woven together. "Whoa."

"Right?" Rey jumps onto the futon next to him, bouncing in her squat. "It's _so_ swank, I should keep it, but you get first dibs. Because I'm such a good friend."

He eyes her suspiciously, but she just smirks at him, so he stands up to try it on.

The fit is almost perfect. It's just slightly too tight through the shoulders, there's a button missing on the front, but otherwise, it's perfect.

"The lining's ripped," he observes as he slips it off.

Rey kicks him. "What a tragedy, because it's not as if one of us has access to an industrial sewing machine."

"I --" Finn hesitates, then nods. "Julio probably won't mind if I use it, you're right."

"I know I'm right," she says, and opens her arms for a hug. When he embraces her, she pinches his side and bites his ear. "You look fantastic, honey. Like a famous poet or something."

"There aren't any famous poets," he says, squeezing her one last time before standing up again to hang up the jacket. "But thank you."

"There should be," she says, tilting her head to think it over. "Why aren't there?"

*

Poe has his arms around Finn, holding him from behind, nuzzling his neck. They fooled around over an hour ago, but Poe still hasn't put his pants back on. If he had his way, he'd never have to move from here again. "Where'd you come from, hmm? Where do they grow such perfect dudes?"

Finn turns his head so his chin rests on his shoulder. His eyes are downcast, his voice soft. The swell of his pillowed cheek is, frankly, voluptuous. "Trash."

"Shut up."

"No, seriously." Finn twists around, drawing Poe forward to sprawl across his lap. He strokes two fingers down Poe's cheek, along his jaw. "You know dumpster babies?"

Poe presses his lips together; his skin prickles cold.

"New mom can't handle it, tosses the baby," Finn continues, like this is a regular occurrence, everyone knows how it goes. "They found mine, but she was a basketcase or something, obviously, ended up dead a couple years later. Her parents wouldn't have anything to do with her or the baby, so there you go." He smiles, like he hates to deliver such bad news, like he's trying to break it to Poe as gently as possible. "State took me."

Poe rolls onto his side and pushes himself up awkwardly, grunting with the effort, so they're eye to eye. His arm is shaking. His voice might be, too. "Fuck, man."

"It was a long time ago," Finn points out.

"But --" Poe shakes his head to shut up. There are a thousand different things he could say, clichés and outbursts; he could make this all about himself, his shock! And outrage!, or he could press for extra, unnecessary detail, or he could rail on and on about the sorry state of -- lots of things, social services, this goddamn world, _everything_. But he doesn't say any of that. Instead, he slides an arm around Finn's shoulders and kisses the side of his face. "I'm glad you're here now."

"Yeah," Finn says, still softly, tipping his head against Poe's. "Me, too. Thanks."

You settle for the simplest statement, the one that describes what you're feeling closest to the present moment. That might be what honesty is.

It's pretty close, anyway.

*

They don't spend a lot of time at Finn's place, mostly because of BB-8, but also because, small as Poe's apartment is, it's nearly palatial in comparison.

"All I want to do is to hang with you," Poe says, dropping down onto the couch next to Finn. They were going to watch a movie, but the TV he got out of storage is so old it won't listen to Netflix or something like that. He didn't entirely follow. "Nothing else."

"That sounds awesome," Finn says.

"Yeah."

"But maybe kind of unhealthy, too?"

Poe yanks at the loose thread on his shirt cuff. "Damn it."

He likes people, always has. As a kid, he got separated from his parents and lost several times because he was so busy making new friends. His father seriously considered one of those child-harnesses for him. 

After everything went down, when Poe got back to the city, he found he didn't know how to _be_ around people any longer. It was like he'd forgotten how to talk to them, or he wore a different face, an off-putting, suspicion-provoking one. Nothing clicked. People were unfriendly, cryptic, impossible to understand. He'd lost a fluency, an ease, that he didn't know he'd had until it was gone. Without it, he was stiff and easily caught off-guard; if he wasn't always speechless, he was definitely confused. Baffled, really.

Conversations never took off; people's gaze slid away soon after introductions. He didn't know what to say, where to put his hands, how to stand.

After that happened enough times, he stopped trying so hard. Then very much at all.

Work was okay. There, he had a message to convey, a real reason to be talking. As soon as the situation wasn't about work, however, all the difficulties crept right back.

Every so often, he would get restless again, frustrated by the gloom of his life. He'd vow that this time, _this damn time_ , he was going to get over himself and get back to normal. He adopted BB in one of those moments -- partly because he needed a home after the puppy mill was raided and shut down, but mostly because Poe thought having a dog would mean he'd be more in touch with the world again. In another such moment, he spent too much money on the excellent convertible couch. He reasoned that people could more easily visit if they had somewhere decent to sleep. His dad, for instance, is too big a guy to fit remotely well on a regular futon.

He realized, eventually, that these spells as temporary feints against whatever was wrong with him. Like the sad, ineffectual jabs and twitches of something dying in a rat's jaws. He was left, after each spell had passed, _not_ with any more ease in the wider world. Instead, he had a little more company and clutter inside his tiny world; it had expanded just enough to admit one small dog (the greatest in the world) and a top-of-the-line sleep sofa, then shrank right back to its mummifying tightness.

He put off his dad's suggestions he come to visit. He turned down a couple blind dates. He stayed home and watched the ceiling. The only thing he kept up with -- because otherwise he'd be a monster -- was taking care of BB.

And going to work, of course.

"I mean," he continues now, twisting a little and drawing up one knee so he can see Finn better. "I _do_ have boundaries. Basically. I don't mean I _can't_ do anything but be with you --"

"Well, that's rude," Finn says, and turns a bit to meet Poe's eyes, and all the while he smiles good and slow and _knowing_. "I'm excellent company."

Poe punches his shoulder. "Look, if I _could_ , I would, I'd be all up in your grill and all over you _all the damn time_ and it'd be incredibly codependent and unhealthy and also _awesome_. But you know what I meant."

"Give it to me straight."

"But we're not."

"Poe."

"Sorry, had to be said. Um." He pushes his hand through his hair. "What was the question?"

"You said I know what you meant, and I think I do, but I want to hear you say it, just to be sure."

"That we're not straight? I'd like to demonstrate just how --" He grins quickly and waves off Finn's protest. "No, I mean. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do than hang out with you. Make out with you. Talk to you. All of that, you know." Uncertainty whacks him suddenly and he sucks in one cheek. "Don't think that's too wrong?"

Finn takes his sweet time to respond. His eyes move slightly, back and forth, as if he's reading something inscribed on Poe's face. "Nah, not wrong at all."

*

"Here," Poe says, handing the picture to Finn. "This was the squad."

"Tell me about them," Finn says, not looking away from the photo. His thumbs stroked the frame, up and down, meditatively.

The picture was taken by the daughter of the farmer whose land they were camping on. They were outside Klepp, in southwestern Norway, trying to document the mink farms. It was almost 9 PM and the twilight wouldn't arrive for another hour and a half; they were all a little punchy from the light. 

"That's Karé in front," Poe says, "sticking out her tongue, and Iolo's back there, looking like an Abercrombie model, and --"

"Who's he? Is that him?"

Poe and Muran were sitting on the downed log in front of the fire pit. Muran had his arm around Poe; Poe was laughing hard, his face buried against Muran's shoulder. Muran was kissing the top of his head while looking at the camera, brows raised. His expression said, loud and clear, _can you believe this guy?_

"That's Muran," Poe says. Saying it -- not Muran's name, but identifying him, _showing_ him to Finn -- wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. "This was a year? Yeah, a year before he died."

Finn's arm goes around Poe's waist.

"He died in September, in Oregon, this was July...yeah, a year or so." He has to get the details right. If he can't even do that, what good is he?

"And they never caught the guy?"

"The guys who did it?" Poe shakes his head. "It was more than one, had to be. No, they're..." He shakes his head again, and then again, as Finn tightens his hold. "Anyway, that's him. Giant-ass goober."

*

"Why are you so nice to me?" Finn asks late one night. So late, the light in the room is starting to go granular and pull apart in advance of dawn.

Poe's on his stomach, one arm clutching his pillow, the other flung out over Finn's waist. Finn has been playing with the hair on Poe's forearm, tracing the tendons in his hand, tapping his fingernails.

Poe smacks his lips a couple times. "'Cause I like you. Like you a lot."

"Okay, but --"

Finn doesn't finish his objection. Poe digs his fingers into Finn's side to pull him closer; Finn shifts with a sigh, something like relief.

It's a good question. It's the kind of question that only comes in the lost times, late night-early morning, or when the shower's running, or as the phone rings and his attention turns. Moments like that, inopportune and forgettable. Perception shifts and understanding clarifies. Thoughts lose all their usual clutter and clamor, leaving only the delicate bones, the simplest statements of need and wonder. _I like you; come closer; why do you stay?_

*

The first thing his dad wants to know when Poe tells him he's dating again is whether he's told the new guy about Muran. 

"Nah, thought I'd spring that on him for our first anniversary," Poe says. "Really make for a memorable occasion. Of course I did. What do you think?"

Kes sighs. "I don't know, that's why I asked."

"I'm not..."

"You're not damaged goods."

Poe swallows and gets up from his desk; there's not much room to pace in his office, so he ends up with his forehead against the window, one hand braced on a tilting stack of stuffed file folders. "I didn't say that."

"Shit," Kes says. "What I meant was --"

Down in the street, a bike messenger is arguing with a cabbie. "It's all right," Poe tells him. "It's not like it's not true. It's not even a bad thing, necessarily."

"Poe," his dad says. "Life bruises you up. Bruises a person up, I mean, doesn't matter who you are."

"I know." He doesn't like talking about this kind of thing, not for long. He worries it makes his dad think about losing his wife, Poe's mom, and then worries further that maybe Kes will hear something in Poe's words that suggests he has it harder or something. He doesn't, he knows he doesn't; his mother died agonizingly slowly, long enough to break Kes's heart hourly, while Muran died within ten minutes of Poe reaching him, bleeding out and gurgling. "No, I know."

Something happens when they get too close to things. They stare at each other, a little helplessly, mouths open but not talking.

It's all the more uncomfortable on the phone.

"Kiddo," Kes says, and he sounds really far away for a second before Poe swallows. "You're a catch. We're all lucky to know you."

Poe hears himself laugh. "Thanks."

"I'm telling you the truth."

"I know." Kes doesn't lie, ever, so if he says Poe's a catch -- _why?_ and, also, is this 1960? -- that means he believes it.

What if Poe gets sad again? Maybe he's been riding high on this crush, three feet high and rising thanks to Finn, but he's got to crash sometime. What will Finn make of him then?

"So try and act like it," Kes says gruffly, then continues, "how was that? Tough love enough?"

"Needs some work," Poe tells him, turning away from the window, trying to sit on the tiny exposed edge of the sill. "You're out of practice, old man."

"Maybe because _someone_ keeps ghosting me."

"Keeps what-ing you?"

Kes sighs heavily. " _Ghosting_. It's internet slang, get with the times. When someone ignores your messages and acts like you've vanished, you're..."

"Ghosted," Poe finishes. "God, that's sad."

"I meant you."

"I know," Poe says. "But still."

"So tell me about the young gent," Kes says. "Will he like my cooking?"

"Does anyone?"

"Never killed you."

"Not _yet_ , you mean." Poe crosses his legs at the ankle and switches the phone to his other ear. "Speaking of which --"

"Killing you?"

"I wanted to make him tortilla soup but it's fucked, I can't get it right."

"First of all, that might because your language is lazy and vulgar."

Poe grins. "Nah, fuck that."

"And plus you're never patient enough for the oil to get hot enough."

"How hot _is_ hot, though? That's the thing!"

"Kiddo," Kes says. "You don't make _sopa_ for just anyone."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He's smiling but he hopes like hell that doesn't come through in his voice. "Here it comes."

" _Sopa_ , Poe. It's for the people of your heart."

"Exactly," Poe says. "Which is why I want to get it right for him."

Kes exhales for a long time; the windy sound turns, finally, at the end into a laugh. "Well, good."

*

Rey's waiting for Finn at the dog park. BB-8 lunges toward her to scramble up on her lap. Rey leans back to give him access and hands her burrito to Finn for safety.

"You're never on time, what gives?" he asks, sitting next to her and helping himself to a bite.

"Couldn't stay away from this weirdo," she says from the depths of BB's wriggling hug. "Here, got you something, check it out!"

She holds up a large toy made out of bright fabric, shaped like a mouse, and teases BB with it.

"That's a cat toy," Finn can't help but point out.

"God, you're a _genius_ , nothing gets past you," she says without looking away from BB's overjoyed face. "You want this? You want it? Yeah, you do!" She tosses it overhand. "Go get it!"

BB trips over his front paws in his haste to give chase.

"Someone might've mentioned his fondness for cat toys," Rey says while they watch him right himself and take off after the mouse. She's smiling, still. That has to be a record for her.

When she elbows him, Finn turns to follow her gaze. Poe's approaching, looking a little harried, his heavy bag bouncing on his hip. Barking joyously, BB barrels into him from the right, then whirls around to go retrieve the toy so he can show it off to Poe.

"Hey, guys, I'm totally late, aren't I? Sorry, sorry, it was --" Poe stops and tugs at his shirt-tails. "Chill, Dameron, take a breath, not everything's a grand entrance. Hi. Hello. Rey, Finn."

"He always talk to himself?" Rey asks in a fake whisper. "Isn't that one of the signs of dementia?"

"Funny lady," Poe says, collapsing onto the bench on Rey's other side, hooking an arm over the back and whistling for BB. "I'll have you know I've _always_ talked to myself, so it can't be dementia."

"Something mental, though," Finn says, and Poe laughs, reaching behind Rey to bump his fist into Finn's hand. He leaves his hand there, drumming his fingers on the bench, then locking his pinky finger around Finn's.

It's strange, sitting here, like they're all friends. 

They _are_ all friends, sort of. That isn't the problem. Finn frowns; there isn't a problem, actually. There's just this strangeness, like he's checking in on a broadcast of his own experience, like he's watching strangers with familiar faces. New boyfriend, oldest friend, short crazy dog: they could be so normal.

No, they _are_ normal, relatively so, anyway. He just needs to get used to this, whatever this is.

Finn half-listens to Rey describe her training regimen to Poe, how woo-woo New-Agey her new coach can be, then to Poe try to explain why just switching to organic milk won't actually do very much at all to save lives and minimize suffering. Finn has heard both of them on these topics enough that he can tune out a little, enjoy the slanting evening sun, toss the patchwork mouse to BB again and again.

Poe retrieves the toy from under the bench, saying to Finn as he straightens back up, "Oh, hey, I talked to my dad today and --"

"Yeah, yeah," Rey says, snatching the toy from Poe's hand and tossing it for a delirious BB, "check your normal family privilege, okay?"

Poe goes still, then blinks rapidly. "What'd I do?"

Finn wants, suddenly, to vanish. Erase himself. "Never mind, sorry."

"Never mind?" Rey punches him in the shoulder. "Not never mind. _Mind_!"

"Family privilege" is a joke he and Rey have, born from the combination of frustration and alienation they feel whenever the subject comes up in conversation with others. People tend to talk about their families as if they're just a given, as if everyone not only has one but also likes theirs, as if obligation to family just _naturally_ supersedes anything else, any other attachment or commitment. _Hey, I know we were going to get together, but -- family, you know?_ _Can you take my shift for the third time this month? family, you know how it is._ Like life really is a holiday commercial (for snow tires, or boxed chocolates, it doesn't matter).

"It's a joke," Finn tells Poe, rubbing away the sting of Rey's hit. To her, he adds, "it doesn't count as privilege just to _mention_ a family member."

"Speak for yourself," she says and mimes another punch.

He's suddenly acutely aware of how strange he and Rey must seem. How strange they _are_ , all their private understandings and short-cuts, slang and highly-condensed jokes. He doesn't know how to shift between where he is with Rey -- their snug little world -- and where he finds himself when he's with Poe. With both of them right here, he's even more lost. 

"Cool," Poe says lightly, but his eyes look like they're searching Finn's face for a clue.

"What did your dad say?" Finn asks.

"Nothing big," Poe says, looking away towards BB. "Just dumb stuff."

It would be disloyal to Rey if he pushed Poe now and tried to elicit what Poe had been about to say, but it would be insensitive to Poe _not_ to try. Finn gets a little dizzy, trying to keep track of all the branching possible implications of each option. In the end, he gets up and chases after BB-8, who's decided to force an arthritic lady Rottweiler into playing.

"Sorry, I'm really sorry," he tells the Rottie's human, a walrus-mustached older guy, as he drags BB away. "He loves big dogs."

"Don't we all?" the guy says, which could be a come-on or just awkwardness. Finn can never quite tell these things.

When he gets back to the bench, Poe and Rey are mock-arguing about protein sources. Whey versus hemp, or sprouted pea, or who the hell knows what.

"You get protein from hemp?" Finn asks, sitting back down and wrestling BB for a stick.

"You can get _lots_ of things from hemp," Poe says. "It's a miracle plant." 

"You don't smoke, though," Finn says. "Weed, I mean. Or anything, that I've noticed."

Rey nods. "And he would notice, trust me, since he watches you like it's unscrambled porn and he's thirteen again. So what gives, square?"

Poe hunches his shoulders for a second, then relaxes. "Can't, 'cause I'm on parole."

"Good one." She laughs, shaking her head as she gets up to search for BB's toy.

Finn slips his fingers through Poe's. "You're on parole, huh? What for? Overly enthusiastic laughter at a Cartoon Network marathon? Jaywalking to save a hurt pigeon?"

"Nah," Poe says. His jaw works a little before he look sidewise at Finn, his lashes blurring his eyes. "Charges were domestic terrorism, but I took a plea down to trespassing and conspiracy."

Finn's eyes feel dry and still; his chest tightens. "Wow."

"It was all bullshit," Poe adds. "I mean, the law's designed to protect property, not people and rights, yadda yadda. But, you know. Gotta have the clean pee."

"Indeed," Finn says.

"I was going to tell you."

"Yeah," Finn says. "You just did."

Poe looks at him sharply and Finn realizes he's smiling. As these things go, it's nowhere near the worst possible surprise. He and Rey made a list, early on, maybe the first week he knew Poe, of the very worst ones. From the top, Poe is: married to a woman; married to a man; a murderer; a tina-freak like Kylo and Hux; one of those racist fetishists, the kind Finn blocked on Grindr constantly before he gave up and deleted his profile. Oddly enough, "animal rights crusader", convicted or not, didn't make the top 100.

"Hey, old dude," Rey says, loping back, tossing the mouse from hand to hand, driving BB _around the bend_. "Weren't you at Woodstock?"

Poe lowers his gaze on her and nods as she sits back down. Deadpan and stonefaced, he says, "Yes. I am actually 75 years old, but just as black does not crack, brown doesn't ever..." He trails off, squinting a bit before sighing and waving his hand as if he can shoo away embarrassment. "Shit, that was going to be the _best_ joke."

"Frown?" Finn tries. "Crown?" When Rey stares at him, shaking her head, he protests, "like in childbirth!"

"Drown, sound, zounds..." she says.

"Zounds, I like that one," Poe says.

"It's a curse, though, not a verb," Finn tells him. "A noun contraction."

Rey elbows him, hard. "He's a nerd," she says to Poe. "You're going to need to deal with the hard truth sooner or later. Best do it now."

"I'm --" Finn scowls. Nerds are well-educated, for one thing, and use computers. "I'm not a nerd. Kind of wish I were, but --"

"How many clones of that redhead are there?" she asks him.

"Jessica Rabbit?" Poe asks.

"No, Jean Grey," Finn replies. "It's hard to say, actually, because, see, with alternate futures --" He only notices Rey's smirk now, when it's too late. "Oh, shut up."

She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest and looking _very_ satisfied with herself. "See," she says, turning back to Poe. "Irredeemable nerd. Blerd. Whatever."

Poe nods slowly, smiling a little, as if taking in something delightful. "I'll say."

Over Rey's head, Finn smiles back and shrugs.

So he feels a little better, then a lot, for a bit. The worry dissipates, loyalty no longer seems like such a pressing and impossible issue, and he just really likes them both. This doesn't have to be hard.

By the time they leave the park, however, he's getting thoughtful again. Awkwardness wells up inside him, cuts him off from the other two, until he's starting to wonder if he looks weird, if he's walking normally. 

Rey heads uptown for yet another training session with the strange and mysterious Skywalker: "he sounds like he's full of shit, but it works, don't ask me how." 

Finn hesitates on the corner.

"Do you..." Poe starts to say while Finn says, "Maybe I should --"

They both stop. BB looks back and forth, back and forth, mouth hanging open.

"You go," Poe says. "Talk, I mean! Don't go, not yet. Unless you want to?"

"I was going to head home," Finn says, "but I..." _Really don't want to._

"I was going to ask if you wanted to eat with me," Poe says. BB yips. "With us, sorry."

Finn smiles. "Yeah, I'd love to."

"Wingo," Poe says, reaching for Finn's hand. "Also I'm going to hold your hand now because it was really weird not touching you back there."

"You sort of did, though," Finn points out. He squeezes Poe's palm, tries to focus on the warmth of it so the worry will drain away.

"Eh," Poe says, "that was like the taste the dealers give you. Get you hooked."

"Your irresistible pinky finger, is that it?"

Poe nods as he holds up his free hand, wiggling his pinky. "Exactly. It's ma-a-gic."

They pick up a bunch of cilantro and big thing of yogurt at the shop on the corner. At Poe's, they heat and break up leftover samosas that Poe brought from a reception at work and drown them in chutney, yogurt, and chickpeas.

"It's not authentic," Poe admits, "but it's tasty, which --"

"-- is all I care about right now," Finn says, spooning up the last dregs onto his plate. Poe grins at him and Finn stills. "Sorry, did you want thirds, too?"

"Nope." Poe leaves his plate in the sink and turns, leaning against it, half-smiling, half-studying Finn. It's a familiar expression by now, but Finn still isn't sure what it actually means when Poe wears it.

Finn stops, wipes a napkin over his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No, you're good," Poe says softly. He looks uncomfortable now, chewing his lip, eyes roaming over the floor. "I was just..."

Finn flattens fragments of samosa dough under his fork. "What?"

"Nothing," Poe says and turns back to run the water.

Finn's probably imagining the sad angle to Poe's shoulders. An angle can't be sad, that's just illogical.

"No, say it," Finn says, then, when Poe doesn't reply, repeats himself more loudly. "Please."

"What was that?" Poe asks, addressing the cabinet over the sink. "Back there, about my dad? Because I don't have to mention him, I guess, but that would be weird, he's.... I dunno. What _was_ that?"

"Can you turn around?"

"Do I have to?" Poe laughs a little at himself but doesn't move, either.

"Please," Finn says. He draws figure-eights with the tines of his fork through the streaks of chutney'd yogurt. "Also, how come you eat yogurt? What about the dairy industry?"

"Oh," Poe says, finally joining him, knocking lightly, so lightly, against Finn's side. "I'm a hypocrite."

"What?"

Poe slides his palm up and down Finn's thigh, less like a come-on, far more like he needs to get warm. "I'm a hypocrite, I do one thing but say another. Classic case."

"Poe, come on --"

He turns his head to look at Finn; his mouth is a line, his eyes dark under his drawn-together brows. "I have principles I utterly fail to live up to."

Finn frowns, unsure why this is such a big thing. "Everyone does, though."

"Yeah, I guess." Poe takes a breath, his shoulders draw up around his ears, and then he stays hunched like that. "So, dad. Family."

"Yeah, I --" Finn makes himself shut up until he knows what to say. One breath, just enough to let the thoughts arrange themselves. "I should've told you, or her, or something. We've got...a lot of assumptions. Shorthand. They work, usually. But they kind of shit the bed back there."

"I just..." Poe starts to say. "I feel bad, you know?"

"Please don't," Finn says. "That's the last thing I want, believe me."

"Okay, but --"

"Don't not mention your dad, that's stupid, that's overkill, that's --" Finn rocks back and forth a bit, holding Poe's hand. He can feel the antsiness coursing through Poe, building up. "I just need time to get used to all of this."

"But the parole thing, that was no big deal?"

Finn shrugs and laces their fingers together. "Guess not, yeah."

Poe bounces a bit before finally breaking away. He hugs Finn as he passes, like Finn's an important stop on the Route of Intense and Studied Pacing. "All of this is...what, though? I want to understand, I'm not asking, like, to say that --. Forget it, never mind. But what _is_ all of this?"

"People," Finn says, then amends just as quickly, "family."

"But --"

He turns to face Poe, or Poe most of the time, given his looping pacing. "There's...you've got a lot of people, huh? In your life."

Poe frowns. "Not really. There's you --"

"No, I mean. _People_ , the people who are important to you."

"Exactly. There's you. My dad and tío Lulo. Karé. Iolo sometimes. Maybe Dr. Organa." He ducks his head. "Maybe not her, don't quote me on that."

Finn fiddles with the roll of paper towels. "Poe, you don't have to say that kind of thing about me. To me. It's okay, you know?" He takes a breath. "We basically just met, it's okay, I'm not --"

Poe stops in the middle of a step, wavering a bit before remembering to put his foot down. "I'm moving too fast."

"No, it's --"

He looks stricken: lips parted, brow furrowed, entire posture _pulling_ toward Finn. "I keep trying to be.... I don't want to fuck this up but maybe I'm trying so hard not to that that in itself is? A fuck up?"

For a second, Finn thinks he grasps the meaning, but then it evaporates. "What?"

Poe doesn't quite smile so much as try to fake not wearing a grimace. "I'm fucking this up."

"No, you're not, it's just --" Finn shakes his head. They aren't even arguing, so far as he can tell. They're just having separate conversations. "I'm so confused right now."

"Me, too." Poe slumps, head back, eyes fastened on the ceiling. "I wasn't bullshitting you. You're up there with the other people, the ones --. You know. I know that's fast and weird and I get that it's probably maybe kind of creepy? But I also can't lie and say you're not."

"Okay," Finn says, slowly, dragging the syllables out. He sees the three of them on the bench again, cheering BB on together, and he thinks he gets what Poe's saying, because it's mutual. "Christ. Thank you."

Poe smiles, then hides his mouth behind his hand. "Yeah?"

"Of course, 'yeah', man. Jesus." He reaches for Poe. "It's...mutual, for what that's worth."

"Win-fucking-go," Poe says, wide-eyed, reaching to clasp Finn's hand.

He lets himself be dragged forward. Finn closes his ankles around the back of Poe's knees, his arms around Poe's shoulders, and kisses him.

"So this isn't about Muran?" Poe asks later, much later, when they've long since turned in, but then had to get up because the fiercest of wolves needed snuggles. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," Finn tells him, scooting back so he can hold Poe, who's spooning BB. He hasn't thought about Poe's ex for days now; why would any of this be about him? "Of course."

The only way to figure out if they're having the same conversation is to ask. Finn knows that all the more now. He just has to keep reminding himself, stop assuming, take a goddamn breath or two, and _ask_. 

*

Julio not only lets Finn use the work machine for extracurricular tailoring, he actually has some good advice.

"Cut out the lining all the way," he says, squinting up through his smeared bifocals and squaring off Finn with both his hands. "Fix the fit."

He's right. With the satin lining gone, Finn wears the jacket like it was cut just for him.

"What do you think?" he asks Julio and spreads his arms. About to turn ("twirl", he thinks, the hell are you doing _twirling_?), he realizes what he's doing, showing off like this, and stops, dropping his arms to just stand there.

Julio grins and shoves his glasses back up his nose. "Boring colors...but nice on you."

Julio's approach to color theory is, Finn has already learned in not quite a month here, "the more the merrier". If it's within the melon-salmon-crimson constellation, then all the better.

"You can pull those off," Finn tells him, smoothing the wool down his front, checking himself one more time in the mirror. "I'm a much more boring guy."

Julio jabs the awl toward Finn. "Live a little, why don't you?"

"That's the idea," Finn tells him.

*

They both try to be careful, try to remember not to presume. Even if the answer to "what're you doing tomorrow, want to hang out?" is, 98% of the time, _yes_ , they keep asking.

Asking is a point of honor, so far as Finn's concerned. They keep asking so they're not taking each other for granted. 

"You busy tomorrow?" Finn asks one morning. He's due into the workshop after lunch, but Poe is trying to do his yoga while eating oatmeal before he goes to work. 

It's not going well. BB is happy to lick the spillage, but he seems to leave more smeared than he ever gets in his mouth. And Finn is more than a little preoccupied by the way Poe's body slides and hitches between poses. His leggings are baggy at the knees, loose and low on his broad hips. They might actually be long johns, not leggings; Finn's not sure. Whatever they are, they're snug where it counts. When Finn complimented him -- "Your ass has never looked better" -- Poe _giggled_.

"Busy? As a bee!" Poe uses the spoon to try to wave away the shitty pun, if it even was a pun. Attempted pun. He wobbles in the tree pose, bowl tipping a bit worryingly. "Pour quoi? Wanna get bizz-ay avec moi? Hmm?"

"Always." Finn rescues the bowl and sets it down on the desk, but not before Poe grabs another spoonful. "But I was wondering if you wanted to go to Rey's match with me first."

Poe chews thoughtfully, then swallows as he sinks down into another pose. He looks like he's about to do that squatting Cossack dance. His thighs are gorgeous; his shoulders are thrown back, his posture perfect and straight, and Finn has to shift in his seat a couple times. "It's like wrestling, right? MMA?"

"Yeah, but with kicking and punching, not just weirdly erotic clinches."

"No, like -- I mean. It's all fake?" Before Finn can reply, Poe hurries to add, "not that she's not a genuine athlete! Don't get me wrong! I just mean -- it's scripted and everything, right? No one actually gets hurt."

Finn kind of stares at him for a moment. Poe does a back bend, head dangling, then unfolds back to the squat before Finn manages to say, "People get hurt. It's real."

"Oh, shit." One leg folded perfectly behind him, the other stretched out straight, toes wiggling at Finn, Poe turns at the waist, frowning. "Really? Are you fucking with me? You're fucking with me again."

"I'm not fucking with you. It's really real, for real."

"Really?"

He grins at Poe. "Sometimes I forget you're like bubble boy. In terms of pop culture, I mean. One of those guys who wakes up from a coma after decades, then has to deal with Robin Williams."

"I'm not! I just...it's hard catching up, then keeping up." Back on his feet, Poe leans over, right leg extended behind him. His brows are drawn tight. After a moment, he breaks the pose and perches on the stool next to Finn. He adds, almost as if it's secret, or shameful, "There's _so much_ to know about in pop culture, have you ever noticed that? To keep track of and to find out about!"

"There sure is." Smiling, rubbing Poe's shoulder, Finn adds, "so that's a no on Rey's bloodfest?"

"Uh. Well. I want to see her again. She's really great!" Elbows on the counter, Poe covers his face with his hands. "But --" 

Finn squeezes his shoulder again. "You don't want to watch people beating the shit out of each other."

Poe parts his fingers and peers out. "Really don't. I'm sorry."

"No, it's cool." He presses his face against the side of Poe's head, his sweaty temple and soft hair. "You should get dressed, you're going to be late."

"Thanks, buddy," Poe says, voice thick, arm snaking fast around Finn's back.

*

When Finn and BB reach the corner where they usually meet Poe after work, he's not there. That's not all that unusual; he gets out at different times, depending on the day's workload.

What is unusual is that he's actually walking away in the opposite direction. His shoulders are up around his ears as if he's walking into a torrential downpour. 

It's a mild evening, only slightly cloudy.

Finn calls after him, and BB barks.

Poe's frowning, all beetled brow and slumped posture, as he crosses the street to join them. "What are you doing here?"

Finn takes a breath and passes the leash from one hand to the other. Poor BB is straining hard, trying to close the distance to Poe through sheer force of will. (If anyone can do it, it's him.)

"I --. Sorry."

"Shit, no, that's not --" Shaking his head, Poe comes closer, reaching down to rub BB's head while peering at Finn. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"

"No, it's cool, I overstepped." Finn tries to hand the leash to Poe, but Poe doesn't seem to notice. "Take it, here."

Poe's expression twists up, snarled like the line you draw, trying to get ink to flow in a pen. "I'm sorry. My mind was --. I was thinking about something else, you surprised me, I was an asshole."

Finn feels like he's tilting backward, not quite falling, more like inclining. He isn't. He wraps the leash a couple times around his wrist and shrugs. "It's cool, it's --. Forget it."

"Finn."

"Yeah?"

"Can we start over?"

Finn glances over his shoulder. "Should I go back around the corner, or...?"

Finally, _finally_ , Poe grins, that sudden flashing smile that hides his eyes. "Nah, don't think that'll be necessary." He darts in, kisses Finn's cheek, and takes the leash. "Hey, buddy, good to see you. BB-8! My dude!"

BB barks and wriggles; Poe drops back down, letting him lick all over his face. When he can, he says, "how was your day?"

Sometimes everything gets so fragile. It will all be fine, but then you take a misstep, or someone speaks without thinking, and the world shifts, reveals its flimsy struts and diaphanous textures.

That's the danger in coming to care about someone, Finn figures. When you don't care, the world remains solid. Unyielding, too, hard to take, but solid all the same.

"Good," Finn replies after a bit. "Yeah, it was okay."

"I tried to text you," Poe says.

Finn's hand goes to his pocket. "I ran out of charge."

"Yeah, figured. See, I have this thing tonight, kind of totally forgot about it and now I can't get out of it."

"Okay," Finn says carefully. This isn't a big deal. Why does this feel like a big deal? "So I guess I'll see you later. Tomorrow? Maybe, I dunno, no pressure."

Maybe this is how it starts. Pulling apart, it has to be small at first, a couple miscues, cancellations, and as you accumulate time apart, you become more and more distant. They're not going to break up in one clean stroke, but in tiny steps, mistakes, misunderstandings.

"I wanted to hang out with you tonight," Poe says.

"You don't have to say that."

"I'm not." Poe lifts one shoulder. "I mean, I'm saying it, but because I mean it. Not just to say it."

The problem is, Poe is such a nice person, he probably can't bring himself to pull away. But Finn can help him out there. "So you don't want to any more? That's cool, I should --"

" _Finn_."

"What?"

Poe squares his shoulders and inhales deeply. "I have this exhibit opening to go to. Old friend, yadda yadda. Been so psyched about _you_ that I totally blanked on this."

"Okay?" He doesn't want to apologize for that; he feels too touched, too happy, for an apology to make any kind of sense. But maybe he should? He's smiling now, can't think of anything else to say. "Okay?"

Poe grabs Finn's arm, the fabric twisting in his grip. "Dude, don't freak out!"

"I'm not --"

"You are, a little, I can see freak-wheels turning," Poe says. "You're a quiet freaker outer, I'm a loud and messy one, but birds of a neurotic feather and all."

"Quiet freaker outer, huh?" Finn turns the phrase around in his head. It fits well. Surprisingly well.

"Yeah, like, all stoic and gorgeous -- obviously! But also _concerned_ shading to _freaked_ ," Poe says. "It's hot, don't get me wrong, it's you. But --

"Take another breath, man."

Poe shakes his head. "I don't want you freaking!"

"I'm chill," Finn says and realizes it's true. "You're freaking about me freaking but I'm not, so you shouldn't." He takes a moment, listens to what he just said, then nods. "Okay?"

Poe eyes him. "I don't know."

"Trust me?"

"Of course."

"No, I mean --"

Poe moves so he can lift his bag and switch shoulders. "I know what you meant."

"Yeah?" Finn asks and returns Poe's smile. "Okay. Tell me about this exhibit."

"It's the other guy from the co-op, Iolo? He went solo after -- after everything." His mouth twists up for a second, then he shrugs and waves his hand. "He was always a little solo, kind of, but I mean officially. So this is just him, but Karé's going to be there and that's awesome, she's awesome, but otherwise, I don't know, it's just an opening, so it's tons of people standing around preening and acting bored and all that. Not exactly fun? But maybe not terrible --"

"Poe."

"Yeah?"

"This sounds great." 

Poe's grin flashes. "Do you want to go? I mean, no pressure, it's no big deal --"

Finn covers Poe's mouth with his hand. "Yes, I'd love to."

Poe's eyebrows jump up as he nips at Finn's palm. "You sure?"

"If you ask me one more time, I'm going to change my mind."

As he withdraws his hand, Finn watches Poe's reaction. He purses his lips, frowns, opens his mouth, looks away, shrugs, then slowly, at long last, nods. 

"Cool, it's going to be really cool with you there."

"Good job," Finn tells him and Poe shrugs again sheepishly.

"I'm just making all this up as I go along, you know," he says.

"Yeah," Finn replies. "Same. Think we're doing okay, though."

"More than okay," Poe says with all the gravity of a witness being sworn in. " _Excellent_."

BB hauls himself up from where he'd been lying across one of Finn's feet. He looks back and forth, panting a little.

"What about the hellhound?" Finn asks. "Should we drop him off first or what?"

One of BB's ears twitches.

"He can come," Poe says. "But no more than four canapés, you hear me?" He holds up four fingers and shows them to BB. " _Four_." To Finn, he adds, "he's a beast for the appetizers and hors d'oeuvres, any kind of finger food, watch out."

That wasn't entirely a joke. When they get to the gallery, BB quickly sets up a circuit of the reception by following a waiter. He pauses at different groups of people and stares up at them beseechingly until he gets fed.

Finn envies his confidence. The gallery is narrow, but deep, with shining white walls; he almost feels like he's stuck in an enormous porcelain tub.

Hardly anyone is looking at the photographs. More people, he'd estimate, are checking out BB-8 than the art, but most of them are standing in tight clusters, clutching plastic cups of wine and looking tense.

"I'm dressed so wrong," he says to Poe under his breath. He zips and unzips the brown hoodie he grabbed at Poe's place when he picked up BB, unsure if it should be open or closed.

Poe leans against him briefly, shoulder to knee, and squeezes his hand. "Me, too."

"Yeah, but you --" _Belong_ , he was going to say, but maybe that's wrong. Poe looks like he always does, untucked plaid flannel shirt and cords. Today's shirt is burgundy and brown, the cords a darker brown. "You look fine."

"You _are_ fine," Poe says and waggles his brows. "Get it?"

Finn shoulder-checks him. "Yeah, that was barely even a single entendre."

"I never said I was --" Poe breaks off as a tall Black woman with chrome-colored braids piled atop her head grabs him around the waist and pulls him up to his toes. "Hey!"

That's Karé, all six-feet-two of her. Poe fumbles through the introductions. The smile she gives Finn is broad and genuine, but before he can say much more than "nice to meet you", they're joined by Iolo. As tall as Karé, but dwarfed by her braids, he's long-limbed and _gorgeous_. He looks like the protagonist of a Wong Kar-Wai film, haunted and slightly out of time.

"The long-lost Dameron," Iolo says, hugging Poe one-armed and kissing his cheek. "Who could have dreamed?"

"I'm not lost," Poe says. "I'm right here."

"Sure," Iolo replies. He plucks at the collar of Poe's shirt. "Thanks for making an effort, I can tell I mean a lot to you."

"Man --" Poe starts. "I came from work!"

"Is that _coffee_?" Iolo leans in to inspect the front of the shirt and Poe pushes him away.

Finn swallows. He doesn't know the guy -- hell, by any sane measurement, he doesn't even know _Poe_ all that well -- but he is certain Iolo's an asshole.

"Hey," he says as he wedges himself a little between Poe and Iolo. "I'm Finn. Congratulations."

Iolo's pouty mouth curves into a smirk. "Congratulations on meeting you?"

"No -- what?" Finn rocks back on his heels and squints, trying to parse that. "Congratulations on the _show_." 

Definitely an asshole.

"Yeah," Iolo says vaguely. "Thanks."

The four of them end up at the back of the gallery, right near the rickety table with bottles of wine. BB stops by every so often, crumbs all over his nose. Finn doesn't want to be rude, but at the same time, he doesn't know these people. It's like they've landed directly from Poe's past and now he's the intruder.

"So you're still in the field?" Finn asks Iolo, trying to clean off BB. "What's it like?"

He wants to ask more: _What was it like for Poe?_

Iolo grins. "It's intense, dude. Mindblowing."

"Exhausting and kind of soggy, too," Poe tosses in. "Can't forget that."

"Brief moments of blood-chilling terror interrupting long phases of soul-numbing boredom," Karé says.

Rolling his eyes, Iolo shrugs one shoulder and rocks back. "Everyone's a critic, once they give up."

"Give up?" Finn asks, but they're talking over him.

"I remember complaining _a lot_ when I was out there," Karé says. "Maybe you only notice now because I _don't_ have walking pneumonia so my voice works above a whisper."

"I've got a kickass sofa bed," Poe says to Iolo, pouring them all more wine as he speaks. "It just might change your whole outlook. Worldview. _Everything_."

Agreeing, Finn nods enthusiastically, even though there's a sudden hollowness in his chest, crawling up the back of his throat. He's been expecting that he'd go to Poe's place tonight. He was looking forward to that, a lot. This inadvertent territorial reaction is weird and he's not comfortable with what it says about him. Who does he think he is, actually? Iolo's probably one of Poe's oldest friends while, technically, Finn's just the new lay. He shouldn't get to have an opinion one way or the other.

"Whatever, I've got a sweet hotel set-up," Iolo says. "No shitty futon for _this_ guy."

"It's actually a great sofa," Finn hears himself say. What is he doing? "Fantastic, no lie."

"You don't say?" Iolo asks.

"Incredibly comfortable," Finn says, wishing he could just _shut up_ , "supportive but not too hard, cushy but not too soft. Amazing."

Poe's just grinning at him, wide and bright, like he's surprised but also psyched.

"Man," Karé says to Poe, sliding her arm around Poe's shoulders and pulling him close. She looks Finn up and down like she's appraising him. "You might take forever but you really can pick them once you do."

"Stockholmed," Iolo says, "only explanation. No, wait. _Dameron-ed_. Seduced by the pretty face, the cute dog --" BB yelps at that but Iolo rolls his eyes. "-- of course, the super bougie lifestyle.... It's all so obvious."

"I'm more than capable of judging furniture on my own," Finn says. He grips his flimsy plastic cup of wine so hard it sloshes and creaks.

"That's right," Karé says, "you're the upholster-er-er-er...upholstery guy."

"The _what_ guy?" Iolo asks.

"You know he is," Poe says. "C'mon, guys, don't be asses. Please?"

"Aww," Karé says, mussing up Poe's hair in precisely that way he hates. He ducks and bats her hand away. "But we're so good at it --"

"They really are," Finn says, right to Poe, as if they're alone. "Who are you to try to clip their full asshole wings?"

Poe gazes at him, grinning. Something warm and pleased shifts through his expression, beyond the grin, bigger than it. Finn wants to lean against the wall, maybe sit down, now that he's mouthed off like a dick and the adrenaline's gone. Crumple to the floor.

Karé smirks at Finn, pointing at him like he's a child who's going to have to stay after class. Iolo just rolls his eyes again before leaning back, out of their messy circle, to check out the crowd.

"-- and we love you so much," Karé finishes, hugging Poe again.

He harrumphs, twisting away in mock-protest, flailing. She's a lot stronger than he is -- about all Poe has going in his favor is a lower center of gravity -- so the wrestling match is highly unbalanced, even when BB-8 tries to get in on the action.

"What was that you were saying?" Finn asks Iolo as they step aside. "About giving up?"

"Sometimes, when you're a kid --" Iolo looks at him, just a glance, but a significant one, impossible to miss. "-- you think you know what you want. You're so sure! But what you are is good at playing at being serious --"

"Sure, sure, and then you come to your senses and sell out, is that it?" Poe asks, brushing Karé's skirt off.

"You said it, not me." Smirking over the rim of his plastic cup, Iolo drinks down his wine. "Got something you need to share, Dameron? Get off your chest, confess in the ways of your people?"

For a moment, confused, Finn thinks that Iolo means "dog people". No, it must be Catholics, he guesses, because Poe's Latino. Maybe?

"Nah," Poe says, "just want to get the terms clear. Make sure we're on the same page."

They glare at each other. Maybe this is an argument they've had a lot, or maybe they're finally saying what they've always wanted to get off their chests. Finn doesn't know. He doesn't know very much at all, come to think of it. He knows the taste of Poe's mouth, how hoarse he sounds in the morning. He knows the texture of Poe's hair and strong grip of his hands. He knows how quickly bloodshot Poe's eyes get when he's sad; he knows how much he aches to cheer Poe up whenever that happens. He knows he can be quiet with Poe and not feel self-conscious; he knows how well Poe's temple and cheek fit against the curve of his shoulder.

Finn barely knows anything. He wants to know more, everything, as much as he can, but watching Iolo and Poe right now, sensing the anger and aggression building between them, he's not sure he ever will.

He turns to study the nearest photo, then the next. 

Iolo has moved on from animal rights advocacy to images of larger-scale environmental devastation: oil spills blooming in oceans, the swirls of toxins across the surface of rivers, the ad-hoc jumbled geometry of clawed-out tar sands. Finn suspects (but what does he know?) that someone else would try to find beauty in the shapes and confluences, but Iolo's camera is a stark, unforgiving witness.

By the time he has completed the circuit of photographs, Finn's eyes burn and he feels wrung-out. He ends up sitting on the windowsill at the front, sipping another tepid cup of wine, while BB snores at his feet.

Karé sinks down next to him and slips off one of her shoes to wiggle her toes. "Having fun?"

Finn looks around, then nods. "There's a lot of powerful stuff."

She grins and sways a little, bumping her shoulder into his. "We actually believed art could change the world."

"Did it?"

Karé stretches her arms out in front of her, twisting her hands around as she tilts her head, smiling at Finn. "Dunno. Still waiting on that."

"Yeah," he says. "Guess it's kind of a long process, right?"

She nods. "What about you? Poe said you're a tailor? Upcycling textiles and all?"

He blinks for a moment, trying to translate the jargon to what he actually does with Julio and João. "Pretty much? Sure. Mostly we just replace shitty upholstery."

"Regenerative design," Karé says, making air quotes with her fingers. "No new materials in the system, just new forms."

"Yeah, cool." Finn thinks about that, about the old slipcovers cut down to make pillows, how carefully Julio sets aside good damasks and tweeds. "I like the sound of that."

After a bit, she takes her leave of him, apologizing in a way that suggests she really would rather keep talking to him. 

Poe emerges from the crowd, alone, both hands jammed in his front pockets. BB must smell him, or otherwise engage his Poe-dar, because he lifts his head and croons softly.

Poe's reaching for Finn's hand while still several steps away. "Let's get out of here," he says, and snaps his fingers for BB. "I need to get the fuck out of here."

*

"Why are you so nice to me?" Poe asks on the walk home from the gallery.

At the curb, Finn touches Poe's shoulder to stop him, since the light's about to change. "Watch out."

"Yeah, thanks, cool." Poe shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Seriously, though, why?"

"Can't play in traffic, man, it's a terrible idea."

"Ha, funny," Poe says. He loosens, then loops again, BB's leash around his hand before they set off across the street. "Why are you so nice to me?"

"I'm a nice guy," Finn replies and BB yips in agreement. "Thanks, pup."

Poe rolls his eyes and passes the leash to Finn so he can pause and fix the lace on his boot. Crouching, face down, so his voice is a little muffled, he says, "you know what I mean. Unless --" He shakes the hair back out of his eyes as he hops back upright. "You're saying you're this nice to everyone? Because, wow, that makes you eligible for sainthood in my entirely profane book. Saint Finn, he of the brainmelting blowjobs and marvelous, magical makeouts, hallowed be --"

Laughing, Finn shoves Poe lightly up the broad stairs to the building's front door. BB scrambles between them, making a happy sort of wheezing commentary.

"It's not that," Finn says, standing right behind Poe, too close for anything _but_ flirtation and innuendo. He slips his free hand under Poe's shirt tail to grasp the warm skin at his hip, just over his waistband. "I've lost more people than I know. Don't want to lose you."

Poe tips his head back, temple against Finn's jaw. "Not gonna happen."

"Not taking any chances," Finn says. "Can't, won't."

The key rattles in the lock; Poe lets his eyes close for a moment. BB woofs, soft and cheery.

"Okay," Poe says, opening his eyes and pushing open the door. "Glad. You know it's mutual, right?"

In the apartment, Poe seems antsy. Restless. He feeds BB, washes a couple dishes, goes into the bedroom to change. After plugging in his phone to charge, Finn curls up on the couch, the red plaid blanket over his lap, and flips through the collection of I.B. Singer stories he's been reading recently. He can't quite focus, but it's nice to have something to try to do while Poe orbits around. 

Even after Poe joins him and tugs the blanket over one leg, the restlessness persists. He changes position, kicks the blanket off, twists around, then back to face forward.

Finn waits.

"Fucking Iolo," Poe says after a while, pressing his fists into his eye sockets. "Master of bullshit, and he's just getting better." 

"I thought..." Finn sets the book aside. "I thought he was your best friend."

"One of them, yeah," Poe says. "Love the guy, but _fuck_. He's such an asshole. I'm sorry."

"Why would you apologize?"

"Because --" When Poe turns to face Finn, he grabs and folds the blanket, his hands never staying still. "Because he's so obnoxious, I don't know. You shouldn't have to deal with that."

"I'm pretty used to obnoxious," Finn says gently.

Poe smiles, but it's wan and effortful. "Yeah, I guess."

"Is that true? Do you think that's true?"

Poe rubs the back of his neck and sighs. "Which part?"

"Like, you eventually, inescapably outgrow all your youthful hopes. Have to sell out. It's all you can do."

"Ha," Poe says without sounding at all amused. "Nah, that's an excuse, an easy accusation. People say it when they need to feel better about something. Their own choices, usually."

"But Iolo --"

"Hey. Hey." Poe half-turns again so he's perpendicular to Finn, hand slipping up Finn's arm. "I wouldn't be anywhere else, okay?"

Finn smiles, and lets himself enjoy the expression as his thoughts try to find sense. The reassurance is really nice, as well as surprising. "I'm not worried about that. About _you_. I was wondering --"

"Ohhh, yeah." Poe sits back heavily again. "Yeah, I don't know, that's way harder to say."

"What did you think I was saying?" Finn hears his voice like he's under the surface of a bath. Distant, a little gurgly. Warped.

Poe glance over at him sharply. "I thought you were asking about you outgrowing..." He rolls his lips together and his gaze drifts away. "Things."

"Not you," Finn tells him. "Didn't we _just_ go over that?"

Poe doesn't reply. He stares at Finn, though, intent and intense, lips slightly parted. When Finn touches him, his neck, then his cheek, Poe sighs into it, flows toward Finn to kiss him, half-cover him, his mouth wet, hot, _seeking_.

"Yeah," he says finally, breathing hard, pulling Finn to his feet as he stands. "Yeah, we did. I need to --"

"Trust me, yeah," Finn says. He doesn't say what he doesn't mean, ever. He'll wait as long as necessary for Poe to _get_ that. He kisses Poe again, still, arm around his shoulders as they stumble down the hall.

Finn backs Poe into the bedroom, hands restive over his shoulders-sides-waist-hips as they kiss. Poe's skin is warm, already familiar; Finn's touch isn't discovery so much as reacquaintance and greeting. They shuffle together, inelegantly, until Poe hits the side of the bed and collapses. Finn keeps kissing him, both hands on Poe's upturned face now. He can't stop kissing him, can't imagine ever stopping, not for long.

Poe's pinching and plucking at Finn's shirt and the waistband of his pants. "C'mon, c'mon," he mutters against Finn's mouth, "lemme..."

"Nah," Finn tells him, lips on Poe's jaw now, "let _me_."

He pulls Poe's shirts - tee underneath and button-down plaid - off together, over his head; when Poe's face reappears, his mouth is open, his eyes bright. "Let you what?"

"Let me," Finn says, hand now on the back of Poe's head, tipping it back, kissing into him as his other hand roves down Poe's chest, back up, across and down. He needs to touch everywhere he can, and keep kissing, and feel Poe against him. "I want, I need --"

Poe starts to lean back on one hand while Finn tries to open Poe's pants one handed. He lifts his hips and watches Finn fixedly. "Whatever you want, buddy, I want that, too."

Finn glances up. He's kneeling on the floor now, hands on Poe's broad hips, ready to pull him forward. 

"I want _you_ ," he says, which makes no sense, of course he does, he must sound so stupid. But it also makes perfect sense, it's the only phrase coming to him, beating over and over ahead of his pulse. "Want to take care of you, make you --"

"Yeah, okay," Poe says softly as he runs his fingertips down Finn's cheek, then tugs at his earlobe. "Whatever you want, you got it."

Finn presses his face against Poe's belly, openmouthed, sucking his way downward. The hair thickens, the fly's splayed open, Poe's breathing quickens and his hand falls heavy on Finn's arm. 

The small, ever-shrinking, rational part of Finn knows that he wants too much, can't sort it out, won't possibly be able to satisfy everything, but the rest of him -- the rest of him is squirming for more contact, hands clutching at Poe's hips now, dragging him forward and working his pants and briefs down. He kisses the clenching muscle of one thigh, brushes his cheek against the side of Poe's dick, tests the weight of each testicle on his tongue. 

"Finn," Poe says, the syllable catching in his throat, when Finn takes the head of his cock between his lips and pushes downward. "Finn."

Poe tastes like skin, like soap and salt, but also something hot, something tender, and as Finn works his tongue around, he spans Poe's pelvic bones with his hands. He holds Poe in place while he moves with his whole body, knees to spine to head and mouth. He swallows, and tightens, and takes the warming stretch deep to the back of his throat, murmuring. When he looks up, Poe is staring down at him, hair in his eyes, mouth canted to one side.

"God, Finn, _please_ \--" Poe says and his cock jumps a bit as his thighs tighten against Finn's shoulders. He sucks in a rough breath before adding, "God, _look_ at you."

Finn tries to smile, but he's too full, already. He needs to be fuller, and he needs Poe to give over, to forget how to speak, to unravel into pleasure. Three fingers stroking Poe's balls, and backward, then forward again, he bobs his head in short, fast, almost harsh strokes. Poe finally arches back, ribs rising to replace his face, ass tightening and lifting off the mattress, and Finn presses closer, ever closer, until he's jacking the base of Poe's shaft and working his lips and tongue around the head, until the tang of precome accelerates, gathers force. Poe cries out, thrusts up into Finn, comes in ragged spurts. His breath is well past language into pure, simple sound.

When Finn clambers up, kneecaps aching, mouth sticky-wet, Poe lifts his arms, gathers him in, until Finn's splayed out atop him, kissing his neck and the jut of his clavicle.

"Want to take care of you," he hears himself say, " _Poe_ , I --"

"You are, you did." Poe kisses his chin, his lower lip, and grins. "You really did."

Finn rests his forehead against the knob of Poe's shoulder. He can't quite catch his breath. 

*

Over the next couple days, Poe ignores the messages from Iolo and Karé. He knows he's being stupid, but when he tries to imagine talking to them, he _can't_. He simply doesn't know what he'd say.

He tries visualizing it, and no words come. Just pressure on his chest and a need to explain, to escape, that he can't bear.

*

Finn and Rey keep the jacket in the bathroom while they take turns taking their showers. Short of paying for dry cleaning, this seems to be the best way to get the old-person smell out of the wool.

Rey suggests spraying it with vodka, a remedy she either heard about at work or found online (her accounts vary, always a worrisome sign).

"The last thing I want to do is show up smelling like a wino, come _on_." Finn would be pacing if there were any room in their place to do so. As it is, he's bouncing on the balls of his feet and trying not to break out into a flop sweat.

Every time he thinks about how he doesn't want to sweat, he could swear he smells it building, foul and rank and terrible.

After the fifth time checking, Rey has refused to put her nose anywhere his pits.

Finn has a white button-down shirt for job interviews; he's wearing that with jeans and the jacket. Without dress shoes, he's stuck with his black high-tops. Maybe it's quirky? He hopes so.

"You're better looking than anyone there," Rey tells him, which is surprisingly, even _suspiciously_ , nice for her. She's been really nice for a while now, since bringing the jacket home, if not before. He should probably start wondering what she's up to. Rey is a wonderful person, his favorite in all the world, but attentive, sweet, and thoughtful, she's not.

They balance each other well, everyone says so.

"You don't even know where I'm going," he reminds her, rolling back his shoulders and sticking his neck out like a bird, trying to get comfortable.

"Doesn't matter, I know I'm right," she says and tugs down his cuffs. "You're going to give that old man a heart attack."

"He's not old."

"Dude, he's old."

"Older than us isn't old-old --" Finn shakes his head. "Forget it, I'm not having this argument again."

"Because you know I'm right."

"Because you're a lunatic and I need to get going."

"Practice CPR on him, he'd probably really be into it!" she calls after him. "Have fun, hot stuff!"

Finn very firmly, very deliberately, closes the door behind himself.

This is going to be fine. This is going to be great.

He has given himself plenty of time to catch the crosstown bus and walk to the restaurant, with padding for taking it easy and _not_ sweating.

All the same, when he arrives, he loiters outside for a couple minutes until his breathing feels more normal.

The waiter guy at the lectern directs him to bar, where apparently his party is waiting.

"Holy smokes," Poe says, stumbling off his tall chair to grab Finn's hand. "You look amazing. You look --"

"You're not half-bad, you know," Finn tells him. He has yet to drop Poe's hand; he's holding him a little at arm's length, looking him up and down, enjoying the sight. Poe looks raw, flushed cheeks and hint of beard shadow, like he scrubbed at work and shaved again. His hair is still damp, swept off his face.

"Eh, I clean up okay," Poe says, "but you, buddy... _damn_."

"It's plaid, see?" Finn tells him, showing him the faint pattern in the wool, tracing it with his fingertip. He grins. "Seemed appropriate."

Looking up, Poe bites the corner of his mouth. His gaze -- it's not just his eyes, but his lashes, his brows, everything so dark, focused, and deep -- is so intent that Finn would shiver if he had the space to think, to react. But he's held here, looking back, meeting the intensity with his own.

"Holy," Poe starts to say again, then pauses.

Now Finn does sweat. A prickle of heat, down the center of his chest, but also welling up inside. He blinks, squeezes Poe's hand, and grows warmer yet.

"We should eat," he says. "Right?"

Poe nods slowly, blinking, too. "I guess, yeah."

Their dinner consists of approximately seventy little dishes, stews and grains and crunchy sprinkly things, heaps of warm flatbread and light, crisp beer that goes right to Finn's head.

He worried for nothing. They've eaten together plenty of times, and this is just another meal. A much bigger one than normal, sure, and they're surrounded by well-dressed people, but it's more than bearable. It's Poe, handsome and strange, and soon enough the circle cast by the candle on their table describes Finn's entire sensorium, the extent of his consciousness.

Somehow Finn starts describing the sense of fragility he gets sometimes. It must be the beer. That, and the sweetness on Poe's face, how he keeps blinking at Finn, trailing off, forgetting what he was saying.

Finn makes a mess of the description, though. Poe squints and scowls, listening, but not following.

"You know..." Finn tries, one last time. "Lately, it's like everything around me. The world, the environment, everything. It all feels flimsy. So fragile."

Now Poe nods, slowly at first, then more quickly. "Right, right."

Finn rubs both hands over his face. "It's just weird, man. It's intense and -- _weird_."

"Yeah," Poe says. "That's right."

"You don't have to humor me."

"I'm not."

"I know I'm making no sense."

"No, you're making perfect sense."

"Bull."

"No bull." Leaning over, Poe slips his hand under Finn's palm. "It's just. It's always like that for me. Almost always."

Finn turns Poe's hand until their palms are pressed together. "Always?"

"Pretty much," Poe says.

"Huh," Finn says and laces their fingers together.

There's so much more to learn, always more to know. He can't help but fill up the empty spaces with assumptions and elaborations, ideas _about_ Poe. But then something will happen -- a gesture, a glance, a comment like that -- and all his ideas blow away, reminding him just how ephemeral they are compared to the real person.

"What are you smiling at?" Poe asks when they're waiting for the bus.

"You," Finn says.

*

Poe doesn't understand how he got his lucky. He doesn't want to think too closely about it, lest he jinx reality and Finn turns back into a pumpkin, or a frog, or whatever.

He just wants to _be_ alongside Finn as much as he can.

They barely make it inside the apartment before Finn is stripping off his beautiful jacket, setting it down on the counter, grabbing at Poe again.

From his crate in the bedroom, BB lets out an entirely unimpressed snore.

Poe pulls Finn down onto the couch, kneeling up to meet him, renewing the kiss that started as soon as they got off the bus.

"God," Poe murmurs, teeth against Finn's throat. "God. I want to fuck you _so bad_."

Finn grasps him tighter, grinding up, yanking Poe's head back to kiss him all over again. "What's stopping you?"

Something drops away, or the air goes still, and Poe forgets what language is. "What?"

Finn pulls back just far enough to grin and lick his lips. He rolls his hips up slow and hard. "I said, what's stopping you?"

"Oh. Oh, _fuck_." Poe sucks in breath after breath, but nothing's clearing his head. "Yeah?"

"Fuck, yeah," Finn tells him, and wraps his arm around Poe's neck, kissing him, holding on, dragging him even closer. Mouth over Poe's ear, his whisper comes like thunder studded with hail: "Do it."

"Here?"

"Yeah, here. _Now_."

The lights from the street filter in through the two big windows. Finn's face is striped with gold and silver as he wriggles out of his shirt and tugs off his pants, one leg at a time to accommodate a Poe who won't be dislodged, not just yet. Poe's touching him all over, full palm and lightest fingertips, squeezing and smoothing, exploring like he's never had a chance before. (He has, of course. He does this whenever he can, can't help it, wouldn't dream of trying to stop.) Finn's dark nipples peak and ache under the touches, standing up from the light curling hair. His head falls back, throat exposed to gold shadows, when Poe strokes his cock, fast, twisting, working him breathless, helpless.

Finally, Poe does have to dismount, long enough to yank off his own pants and pull the couch out to flatten it into a bed. Finn flops with it, grunting in surprise, then whimpering inquisitively when Poe makes a run down the hall to grab the supplies. He makes sure to close the bedroom door, lest BB-8 try to come and watch.

Poe climbs back up next to Finn. "If I was your age, man, I'd be _all_ for fucking on a couch," he says, pausing every couple words to kiss Finn, "but it's weird. Older I get, the more I like my comfort."

"Fine by me," Finn's saying, taking the bottle of lube from Poe's fumbling hands. "Just get to it, that's all I care about."

"Yeah?" Poe can't stop asking, can't help wondering, even as he cups Finn's cheek and kisses him. It's not that he doesn't believe this, any of this, all of it. Hearing the reassurance, however, does something to him, settles a bit of the agitated heat inside his chest (not in his dick, though, that's just getting hotter).

"Yeah, yeah." Finn reaches between them, stroking lube down Poe's cock as the condom's unrolled, then fingering himself a little while Poe rearranges his position.

"Hey, my job --" Poe kneels between Finn's legs, sliding his hand over Finn's, interlacing their fingers, trying (not very efficiently) to get him ready.

"Collaboration --" Finn's voice is going tight; he stretches, pushing down to meet the touch, pulling up to look down, then kiss Poe. He lifts his hips, his hand slipping free to grasp at Poe's arm. "Oh, god, okay --"

Poe glances up, smiling, as he wiggles downward so he can mouth at the head of Finn's cock, tease and taste it, while working two fingers inside Finn. Past the first knuckle, spreading, lubing, twisting around until Finn's grunting in the same rhythm and his cock is jumping against Poe's palate.

He's fingered Finn before, he's _definitely_ tasted and sucked him before, but it's all new anyway, it's new and thrilling, this beautiful man spread out in his living room, gasping his name every so often, opening for him, every secret warmth gone slick and welcoming.

"Okay, yeah, so, here we go, here I --" Poe makes himself shut up, but it's _hard_ , it really is, as he crawls back up and tips Finn onto his side. He's still got his hand between Finn's legs, four fingers buried now to the hilt. "Can you grab your leg?"

Finn replies in a sort of laughing sob. He raises and bends his top leg so he can tuck it into the crook of his elbow. He looks over his shoulder, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and before he can do anything else, Poe's kissing him again, swallowing the complaints when he pulls his fingers out. He wraps an arm around Finn's waist, pulling him back and guiding himself up, a little ways in.

"Fuck," Finn's saying when each breath breaks against Poe's chin. He's twisted all around, seeking Poe's mouth, holding his leg up and out of the way. "Fuck, fuck, _yeah_ \--"

"Sweetheart," Poe says, and then again, when he shifts a little and pushes in further. Finn jumps in his arms only to shove back and take him all the way in, breathing out the echo of a shriek, making room for Poe and holding him fast. "Sweetheart, _fuck_ , I --"

"Fuck me," Finn says, thrusting into the space between couch and his own thigh, "come on, _please_."

Poe wants to say a thousand things, but they're all the same, they're all a variation on "love you". He's a thesaurus of adoration, overwhelmed and overbrimming, so many ways to say the same thing. He rocks his hips, wriggles, and then they're moving together, Finn arching back, Poe snapping forward. It's so good, Finn's tight and hot, radiant, shuddering in Poe's arms and grunting. His skin runs with sweat, pulling all the light out of the air, shining, _glowing_. He's strong, so strong, and open. Open, needy, beautiful.

Poe holds on, watches and chases and _clutches_ , lest Finn run through his grasp, disappear, wink out.

When Poe speeds up -- he can't help it, there's so much to chase, he's feeling so much and wants so much more -- Finn blooms before him, reaching up to hold onto the back of the couch, pulling his knee even farther up his chest. He opens and closes his mouth, swollen lips and sharp white teeth, eyes blinded by sweat that glitters. Poe kisses him, fucks his tongue in, tries to complete the circuit, tries to link them up all the way.

"Fuck, baby, I'm going to --" The orgasm blindsides Poe, cracks his pelvis and drives down his dick like lightning. "Fuck, love, I --"

Finn bears down on him, won't let him go, shivers and stays while Poe pushes himself inside out and empties the very best of himself.

"There you go," Finn whispers, kissing the side of Poe's jaw. He chafes his hand up and down Poe's forearm, then twists again to kiss Poe's mouth. He wiggles, slipping from Poe's hold to push him onto his back. Grinning, Finn climbs up to straddle him. "That's good, that's --"

Poe's still shaking, empty-minded, alight with love and thrills. "What are you --"

"Getting some." Finn smiles crookedly and pulls Poe's hand back between his legs. "Help a brother out."

"Oh, god," Poe breathes, three fingers sliding in just like that. Finn's head drops down, his lip caught in his teeth. "Oh, god, sweet --"

"Harder," Finn tells him, straightening up, hand on his cock. "Talk to me."

He's painted with light, fucking himself on Poe's hand, the muscles in his thighs bunching and lengthening as he moves up and down, forward and back.

"Fuck, you feel _so_ good, you --" Poe twists his hand and tries, not very successfully, to spread his fingers. "Tight, beautiful, so _right_ , baby, you --"

"Like that," Finn says, jacking himself faster and grinding down on Poe. He looks down at Poe, fierce and insistent, ablaze with hope and need. " _More_."

Poe grabs at Finn's hip with his free hand, digs in his nails, feels Finn's thighs tighten around him, his hole taking him deeper.

"Love fucking you," Poe says. "Don't want to do anything but fuck you, fuck you hard, senseless, make you feel so good, baby, come on, come for me --"

" _Please_." Finn sags for a moment, shoulders tilting, head cocked to the side. Then he's shooting, all over his hand, onto Poe's chest, his mouth open and red, yowling. His hole flutters and clutches at Poe's fingers; they push out as Finn collapses to lie atop Poe, kissing him hungrily, his hips still working, just gradually slowing down.

Finn's body is heavy, so hot, smothering. Poe kisses him shallowly and holds tight.

"You," Finn says hoarsely.

"No, you," Poe says. It makes sense, somehow.

While Poe's still laid out gasping and staring blankly up at the ceiling, Finn gets up. After washing up, he pads into the kitchen for something to drink. Gloriously naked, he returns with a carton of juice and crinkling bag of root vegetable chips. Shivering a little, he drops the bag on Poe's chest, sets the juice down on the floor, and shrugs on the shirt in his other hand.

Poe just watches him. His mouth is open and dry, his whole body throbbing and twitching.

When he catches Poe's eye, Finn smiles shyly and pushes the sleeves up to his elbows. "Hey."

"That's my shirt," Poe says.

Finn looks down, plucking at the button band. "So it is. Cozy."

"Looks nice on you."

Finn shrugs one shoulder, then rips open the bag. "Thanks."

Poe pushes up on his elbow. "I'm serious."

Finn always looks good, and he's taken to borrowing Poe's stuff, so now Poe's clothes look good, too.

It's just an old flannel shirt, cream ground crossed with broad red and thin black lines. On Finn, though, the texture looks softer than velvet and the colors nearly jump and glow. Somehow Finn looks _more_ naked with it on, open and loose, than he did just now, when he really was naked. It's the contrast, probably, but there's also something about the shirt being Poe's, familiar and well-worn, transposed onto a new body, a beautiful, beloved one. 

"Yeah," Finn says, nods and swallows, before offering the juice to Poe, who shakes his head. "I know you are. Thanks."

"Okay, good. I don't want you to think I toss out compliments willy-nilly or anything."

Finn frowns elaborately. "But you do. You told the bus driver tonight that she had pretty eyes."

"She did, though! I mean every single one of them," Poe says. "No willy, no nilly to be seen."

"Just pure, true sincerity, huh?"

"Yeah, that's right."

Finn's trying not to smile. "I want to make a joke about the 'no willy' part, but I'm braindead and it's not coming to me."

"Because you came so hard?" Poe asks, hopefully, expectantly, as he crawls closer. "Because maybe someone really did right by you? Took care of _all_ of your needs?"

"Exactly," Finn replies, getting hold of Poe's arm and dragging him the rest of the way over. "Something something two willies by my count something?"

"It's a good start," Poe says, somewhat musingly. "Needs work, though. All nilly, but a little bit of room for a willy, maybe?"

"Who're you calling 'little', man?" Finn leans back, feigning shock and outrage. Poe throws himself after him.

"Not you," he says, straddling one of Finn's legs and planting his hands on either side of Finn's shoulders. As he bunches the flannel in his fists, he looks fierce, sounds zealous. "Never you, I promise."

Finn purses his lips. "Promise?"

"Bottom of my heart," Poe says quickly, nodding so fast that his face blurs and his curls lift out in every direction. "Pinky-swear, hand on any book you name."

Finn's hands settle on Poe's hips as he kneels there; Poe's skin is still damp with sweat, but cooling, and he shivers, giggles a little, when Finn moves his fingers.

*

"Here," Poe says before he even sits down. He's on his lunch break the day after his real normal-person date with Finn and he still feels like he just shed about twenty pounds. "This is yours, sorry I've had it so long."

Iolo turns the camera back and forth in his hands. It's a decent Soviet rangefinder, a late 1970s Zorki. Slightly worse for wear, but, then, who isn't?

Poe adds, "Kind of dented, but it's --"

"This isn't mine," Iolo says finally and hands it back. Poe folds his arms, so Iolo puts it down next to his plate. "If you want to give it to me, great, I love presents. Thanks, Poe! You're so kind."

His hands are hot, stuck in his pits like this, so Poe drops into the spare chair and clasps them in his lap. "It's yours. You let Muran use it in Wyoming, and then you went to Oslo, remember? And we --"

Maybe it got dented when all his stuff was in storage at his dad's, Poe doesn't know. He can't remember, he doesn't want to try.

Iolo checks out the camera again. "My Zorki was much nicer."

"I said it was dinged!"

He presses his thumb into the larger of the dents on the body. "This is some ding."

"I'm sorry," Poe says, pulling the fingers of his right hand back as far as they'll go, then doing the same to those on his left. "I'm sorry for ruining your camera that you didn't even remember owning, I'm sorry for giving up and running away and selling out because I was scared shitless, I'm sorry I didn't say I'm sorry before."

Iolo pushes the camera away and props his chin in his hand. Poe's on stage, it feels like, and he never knew his lines to begin with. "You finished?"

"No," Poe says. "Yes. I don't know. I really am sorry even though all of that just now was passive-aggressive as fuck. Sorry."

Iolo takes his sweet time responding. Poe crushes his hands together under the table, waiting. "I deserve it."

"No, you didn't --" It takes him that long for Poe to hear what Iolo actually said. "Wait, you do?"

Shrugging, Iolo glances out the window. His cheek hollows for a moment, then he looks back. "Probably. Most likely."

Poe wants to hug him. Just scramble across the table and throw his arms around the guy and hang on. Instead, he flicks his index finger against the side of the table until it hurts. "I don't believe you."

"Fine," Iolo says, and stands up. "I'm getting more coffee. You still take it black and boring?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

While he's alone, Poe fiddles with the Zorki, then watches Iolo at the counter, then rearranges the packets of sugar in their tiny box. He checks his phone, thinks about texting Finn, but doesn't. What would he say? _I'm being brave and making up with Iolo! Hug me? Pat my head, tell me I'm a good boy._

"Here," Iolo says, setting down Poe's coffee. Lacy dark foam swirl on its surface. "Drink up."

"Thanks," Poe says.

They're looking everywhere but each other. Iolo's fingers are as long and elegant as ever, Poe notices when Iolo starts tapping the tiny sugar spoon against his mug. This was a guy he shared a sleeping bag with for _years_ , a brother, someone he loved and trusted with his life.

"It was a non-cooperation plea," Poe says. "I know you know that, but I wanted to tell you. I didn't name any names, people, orgs, cells, anything."

"Yeah," Iolo says, "that's the story, right?"

Poe imagines tossing this hot, expensive coffee in Iolo's gorgeous face. He wouldn't, because he's not aggressive and also he's a wimp and kind of klutzy, but it's nice to picture.

"The truth."

Iolo's smirk fades for a moment, but then he sips his coffee and returns to normal.

Then, because he has to, it's like the words are piling up at the back of his throat, Poe says, "I really am sorry."

Iolo's gaze flickers over. "It's okay. I'm an asshole, you're...usually not but apparently you can be, it happens."

"You're not an asshole."

"I really am, you know that." Iolo smiles then, not his usual smirk, not even his glad-handing gallery grin, but a genuine _smile_ , one that Poe hasn't seen in a long time. "Admit it."

The rest of them used to get on Poe's case all the time for having difficulty saying a bad word about _anyone_. Muran would hold him down, Karé would tickle him, and Iolo would toss out random names, daring Poe to insult them or face the tickling.

"You are," Poe says now. Iolo blinks a couple times in surprise and Poe grins. "You really are."

"Much better," Iolo replies. "Maybe settling down _has_ been good for you."

Poe swallows. Now his throat feels too empty. "I had to, you know. I couldn't --"

"I know, man. I'm not -- you did what you had to do. I get that. You made sure no one else got hurt, too. I'm just ragging on you anyway. Because I can."

"Asshole."

"Exactly."

He doesn't understand the distinction that Iolo's trying to make, somewhere beyond the truth of things (you did what you had to do), where criticism is a free-floating possibility, unrelated to the truth itself. Poe starts to say something, then stops when he realizes he has no clue _what_.

"So, anyway," Iolo says, and maybe he's saving Poe the embarrassment, or maybe he's always enjoyed being the center of attention and can't bring himself to shut up, ever. "How's your hot-ass dad?"

Iolo's thing for, crush on, Kes is never going to be less than horrible to contemplate. Poe grimaces. "Still way out of your league."

"Eh," Iolo says. "I disagree, but I also like a challenge."

"You're so awful," Poe says. "What the fuck?"

"Hey, don't look at me. Which one of us is raiding the local high schools now?"

"What?"

"Your hot boyfriend," Iolo says, sitting back. "He's barely legal! What is he, eighteen? Nineteen? Far side of twenty, definitely."

Poe grins, because Finn _is_ hot, so hot and handsome, and it's nice to hear him complimented like that. Then he scowls, because Iolo insists on being obnoxious. "Twenty-four, come _on_."

"You come on, player. He's a baby!"

"He's fully grown --" He claps his mouth shut, but it's too late, and Iolo's leaning in, ready to pounce, leering.

"Yeah? How full?"

Poe kicks him. "Shut up."

"You shut up."

"I tried but you made it gross!"

"Poe, bodies are beautiful, all bodies, but especially _some_ bodies more than others."

"Shut. Up."

"Now, _how_ beautiful would you say Finn's is? Imperial or metric, I can handle it."

 

On his way back to the office, Poe's phone rings with the theme from _A Summer Place_.

♥FINN ♥  
  
**Finn:** Don't worry, everything's ok  
  
**Poe:** Why would I worry?  
  
**Finn:** Good news or bad news first?  
  
**Poe:** THERE'S BAD NEWS??  
  
**Finn:** I told you, don't worry.  
  
**Poe:** nope now im worrying sorry  
  
**Finn:** alright, good news first: lube really is nontoxic if you ingest it!  
  
**Poe:** what  
  
**Finn:** even if it you ingest 1/2 a bottle  
  
**Poe:** what  
  
**Finn:** and you're a corgi  
  
**Poe:** WHAT  
  
**Finn:** bb's just fine [](http://prefabathenaeum.com/als/images/corgi%20wet%204%20b.png) **Finn:** [sent a picture of BB-8, fur soaked and plastered down, but face still alight with excitement; he loves getting his picture taken]  
**Finn:** Took him to the vet, everything's fine, he needed a huge bath and some fiber-heavy food.   
  
**Finn:** To plug him up.  
  
**Poe:** oh god ewww im sorry buddy  
  
**Finn:** It's fine, it really is. I think I was way more scared than he was. He was having fun.  
  
**Poe:** he always does  
  
**Finn:** Yeah, he's a lube bottle half-full kind of guy.  
  
**Poe:**!!  
  
**Finn:** Sorry. :P  
  
**Poe:** Tell the vet's office to call me, I can give them my credit card or something. Do they have it on file? They must have it on file.  
  
**Finn:** it's taken care of  
  
**Poe:** buddy  
  
**Finn:** it's fine  
  
**Poe:** BUDDY  
  


*

 

Finn doesn't bother responding; he worked out a good barter with the groomer, sewing and hanging drapes for BB's blowout. When the groomer's finished with BB, they head home -- Poe's place, that is -- and only stop for two treats on the way. BB seems very pleased with himself, fluffed-out and high-stepping, his head swinging around to greet each and every passerby. 

The apartment's a disaster area. Finn lets BB hang out on the bed while he tries to clean the living room from Lube-o-palooza. Luckily, Poe's beloved sofa couch has removable, machine-washable slipcovers. He mops up the lube on the floor with a roll and a half of paper towels, then mops with nearly undiluted vinegar, which Rey always swears by for everything from household stains to muscle aches and first aid. The worst victim of the mess is the red plaid blanket he slept under his first night here. Not only is it soaked with lube, but when he tries to scrub it clean in the tub, it mats, then tears in his hands.

When he's finished, the place smells like salad dressing and he's exhausted. Too much adrenaline, not nearly enough food. Finn showers, takes a quick nap with BB, who has never smelled better, all lilies of the valley and fresh-cut spruce, then starts dinner.

Poe gets home -- _back_ , it's back, watch the vocabulary, Finn -- when the marinara is just simmering, the basil leaf in the middle drooping under the surface.

Poe drops his overstuffed satchel in the doorway and looks around wildly. "Whoa, you're still here, sweet! Are you okay? Is Beeb okay? Where is --?"

BB clatters down the hall, snorting happily; Poe immediately drops to one knee, arms open. "Buddy, hey! You look so pretty!"

BB is half-climbing Poe's torso while also rolling back and forth in his arms. From somewhere behind the happy snorts and waving fur, Poe peers up at Finn. "He smells amazing!"

"Right? I don't know what they washed him with, but I want some." Finn turns on the other burner and puts down the pot of water to boil for pasta. "Tortellini all right?"

"What, like I'm going to say no?" Poe tries to stand up but BB has other ideas, burying his face against Poe's neck and shivering happily. Sitting all the way down, back against the door, Poe says, "okay, okay, I'm here." He looks over at Finn again. "Could really get used to this. Coming home to unrecognizably clean dog, delicious dinner, breathtakingly handsome dude. You're spoiling me."

"Nah," Finn tells him, dropping down into a crouch so they're more eye-level. "Just regular treatment. What you deserve."

Poe starts to make a face, but BB yips and flings himself onto his back between them, rolling back and forth for tummy rubs.

"So what happened?" Poe asks a little later as he serves up second helpings on the pasta. "No, Beeb, tomatoes are poison. Also you're too clean, hazards of being so pretty, sucks to be you."

" _Someone_ left the lube by the couch," Finn says, "so Mr. Chompy McChewington here decided, hey, _this_ looks like a fun new toy. Cue both of us soaked and sticky as hell, him delighted, me panicking." He holds up his hand when Poe starts to apologize again. "It's fine, it's fine, I told you it's fine."

Poe's resting his hand on the top of BB's head, stroking his ears. "I can't believe him, I'm sorry, I --'

Finn waves him off. "It's fine. We went to visit nice Dr. Yang --" BB snorts deliriously at her name. "Right, man, you love her, don't even front. And he's fine, just, like, slippery inside for a while. Then they groomed him, we stopped for biscotti, came back. That's the day."

"You're leaving _so much_ out," Poe says, shaking his head a little reproachfully.

Finn leans forward, clasping his hands in the space between his legs. "See, when they called us in at the V-E-T, the tech was like, 'hey, BB-8, this your new dad?' And I --"

"Whoa," Poe breathes out, shimmying forward, hand on Finn's thigh.

"It's so stupid," Finn tells the dog, instead of Poe. His throat is killing him all over again. "But I was so freaked out, like oh shit I killed your dog, I love this guy, I don't want --" He draws a deep, shuddering breath and forces himself to meet Poe's eyes. "Then they called me his dad and he was _fine_ , all wiggly and happy, and I. I kind of lost it."

"Well, yeah," Poe says, nodding a lot, his eyes wide. "Who wouldn't?"

Despite himself, Finn has to laugh a little. "A lot of people wouldn't, but the fact that you asked that, thought that..."

He runs out of words, then breath. In the end, all he can do is stare a little hopelessly at Poe.

Poe's tilting his head, gripping Finn's knee, _peering_ at him. "You _are_ his new dad, it's not --" He ducks his head and clears his throat. "If you want to be, I mean. Position's open, we'd love to have you aboard."

Finn reaches over, tangles his hand in the back of Poe's dense curls, and pulls him forward into a kiss.


End file.
